GTB Part II: Ramifications
by FraidyCat
Summary: Charlie is literally beside himself as he deals with the aftermath of Mark Danielson. Sequel to "Grand Theft Brother".
1. The Cover of Night

**Title: ****GTB, Part II: Ramifications**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: ****In the case of fanfiction, the author will usually give a disclaimer saying that the author of the fanfiction does not, in any way, profit from the story and that all creative rights to the characters belong to their original creator(s). That sounds reasonable to me.**

**FAIR WARNING: This is my promise to the reader: an enormous amount of research goes into each of my stories; the ones I complete under this name, and the ones I co-author under other pseudonyms. Over 90 completed stories are archived here in fanfic-land to serve as my witnesses: I don't make this shit up. For the purposes of dramatic effect and angst, I often push the envelope. For example: While it is not common for an oral surgeon to break someone's jaw on purpose during a molar extraction (_"Phantasmagoria"_), the operative thing to remember is that _it can happen_. Repeat after me: "FraidyCat says it can happen." Memorize these words, and repeat them as often as necessary as you read this installment of GTB. I'm pretty sure I will be taking you places no man -- or at least not our timid Charlie -- has gone before. Fair Warning Subplot: The bulk of my work, recently, has been completed before I begin to post; nothing is more annoying that investing in a story, as a reader, and then having it stand you up just like that guy did last Friday. (TMI?) Yet there is something to be said for writing "live", as well. Reviews can help determine the direction a story takes. Plus, knowing people are counting on me creates both stress and motivation. This is how I began writing and posting fanfic; 'on the fly', as it were. At least 50 of my completed fics stand as a testament: I assure you, I am not in the habit of leaving unfinished work. Ordinarily I write pretty stinkin' fast ("_Sound of Silence_" and "_Grand Theft Brother_" were both written as they were posted), so I ask you to extend me the benefit of the doubt on this one. Several days might pass between chapters, due both to the excessive research I anticipate and the monster known as Real Life. My desire is that anything I _do_ post be worth your investment of time in reading it; I promise to do the best I can.**

**Credits: Again I thank Tanager36 for the original bunny that led to "Grand Theft Brother". As is often the case with bunnies, there are now several more running around, and they have hopped up "Ramifications", the GTB sequel. (Remember, this could really happen. I looked it up.)**

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**Chapter 1: The Cover of Night**

He sat in the sweltering East-L.A. apartment, sticking to the cheap, cloth-covered futon that served as his chair, his bed, his dining room table, his entertainment center -- virtually his universe -- and dragged another hit off the bottle of vodka. The lockless, splintered door stood open to the narrow, dark hallway, and the life taking place in other apartments leaked into his own. A mother screeched at misbehaving children on one side, while rap music and party noises drifted from the other. Further down the corridor, a door slammed as one lover ended a spat with another; thunderous footfalls echoed in the stairwell as the incensed partner slammed down the six flights to freedom. A telephone shrilled unanswered across the hall, and canned laughter blared from a television of indeterminite location.

The bottle now empty, he tossed it listlessly to the other end of the futon. The summer heat drained him, even sitting in front of the box fan, and further expenditure of energy was both unwise and unnecessary. He slumped on the futon, his head pounding in time with the relentless bass beat of the rap music, and thought about his miserable existence.

Jeffrey Michael Danielson was an unhappy, unhappy man...and there was an Eppes to blame for it all. First, the oldest son had managed to...disconnect him from his earthly shell, for lack of a better description; in a warehouse almost as filthy as this crumbling walk-up. He had somehow been able to save what really mattered -- the core of his being -- but he had to share this body with the other Eppes. The whiny, skinny, weak, disgusting wuss that was Charlie. The gutless wonder who had killed his brother.

His Mark.

That was indeed reprehensible, constantly being pushed down to the background as he was, while he dwelled there, simmering, just below the surface. It was nearly unbearable, what he had to endure; all matter of shit. The cloying, insufferable, insatiable father; always hanging on, always wanting more. The insipid, wretched, vapid woman; teasing relentlessly with her scent, her knowing looks. The intolerable, macho, swaggering brother, insistent and assertive, his presence as constant and relentless as fungus. _The mind-numbing numbers_; Jeff felt as if he was sharing a body not just with one man, but with hundreds. Some days he felt as if he would be trapped there forever, buried beneath twisting '8s', and '4s' with angles as sharp as knives.

He wanted out. Every time he bubbled to the surface, he fought harder to stay. He was always so relieved, he wasted a lot of time just breathing, thinking, drinking... It was time to turn things up a notch. There were things to accomplish when he was out. Plans to make, and punishments to administer.

It was difficult to know where to begin.

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Charlie awoke in a cold sweat; which was quite a feat, considering it was a record-setting June in Los Angeles. Temperatures hadn't been this hot for this long in nearly twenty years. He and Larry were exchanging e-mails stuffed to the gills with algorithms intended to explain the trend. Perhaps they would even solve the global warming problem in the process.

He sat up slowly, sticking to the painted surface in the humid night, and wondered where he was. It was dark, but streetlights illuminated trees, benches; a small playground. Was he in a park? It was difficult to breathe in the suffocating heat and the equally suffocating fear, and Charlie gasped a few times as he explored the world directly around him. He discovered, to his growing dismay, that he was indeed in a park, and had been sleeping on a bench. He shot to his feet, guilty and uncertain exactly why, looking furtively into the shadows. How late was it? How did he get here? He moved to rub his sweaty palms on his jeans, felt something besides denim and made a soft noise of distress as he looked down. He appeared to be wearing shorts. Khaki walking shorts he couldn't remember ever having seen before, let alone buying, and...flip flops? Where were his shoes? And when did he replace his cotton shirt with this grey, sleeveless, rib knit tank top? Even in the heat Charlie felt naked, and he transitioned from sweating to shivering.

He searched the shorts' pockets for a cell phone, so he could check the time. If it wasn't too late, maybe he could call Don to come and pick him up -- if he didn't mind admitting to Don he had no idea how he had ended up asleep on a park bench; and if he could figure out where he was. Wherever he was, he soon discovered that he had come there without a phone. He took an uncertain step in one direction, then stopped and turned to face the other way. He had no idea which way was up. It was almost an abstract worry, the fact that he should be in his car, squinting into the sun and driving home after grading his last finals. Where had the time gone? It must be very late, for only a few vehicles had passed on the street that ran alongside the park. Charlie checked his pockets again, hoping to find money this time; if he had money, he could hail a cab. From a cargo pocket, he withdrew a soft pack of cigarettes, half gone, and a lighter. He regarded the foreign objects for a moment, mystified, before finally tossing them into a trash receptacle near the bench.

He sighed shakily and decided to walk in the direction most of the cars had been traveling. He hummed tunelessly, nervously, automatically. This was...bad. It had been disconcerting when he had gotten lost at CalSci, somehow going to the science computer lab and not the lecture hall that had been his destination when he left his office. It was discomfiting when he couldn't remember if he had written all of his final exams or just thought about it, and had actually had to check with the department secretary. It was unnerving when his father started shouting at him while Charlie was peeling potatoes in the kitchen, and he had followed his dad's horrified gaze to see that he had peeled off a good chunk of his finger, and not even felt it. The potato absorbed the blood like a sponge while Alan danced around waving his arms, demanding to know what Charlie had been daydreaming about. All of that had been confusing, but this...this was mortifying. He had never lost hours of time, before. He had never awoken in a strange place, wearing strange clothes, before. He craved the comfort of his family, yet he was embarrassed and afraid to tell them about this. A sense of shame permeated the very air that choked him.

Maybe it was good that it was night. He would figure out where he was, and walk home. He could get the spare key out of the garage, sneak into the house and up to his room, and no-one would know.

No-one would know.

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End, Chapter 1


	2. The Long Road Home

**Title: ****GTB, Part II: Ramifications**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: ****FraidyCat is a not-for-profit corporation. Those who enjoy this work enough to pay for it must send their cash to CBS, who will redirect it in the proper directions, I am sure.**

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**Chapter 2: The Long Road Home**

He found the hidden, Velcroed® compartment in the waistband of his shorts almost two miles later, when he reached down to scratch an irritated belly. The rough Velcro®, sloppily fastened, was rubbing at his skin. By this time, Charlie was in a more populated area – if bars and rooms-by-the-hour dives were places that he frequented, places where he felt comfortable, Charlie might have asked one of the people spilling out of the various doors to help him. Instead, he just began walking faster, determined to wade through the teeming pre- and post-coital miasma. Then he reached down to rub at his stomach, and found the hidden compartment; not long after, he gripped the hard plastic debit card. He stopped dead in his tracks, relieved almost beyond comprehension. Someone rammed into his back and careened off him, slurring in vitriolic swears, and Charlie almost dropped the card. He scooted to the inner edge of the sidewalk, into an alcove of some closed business; heat still radiated off the brick building, leading to the surrealistic feeling that Charlie was voluntarily lounging in an oven. He clutched the card to his chest and looked around owlishly. No cabs had passed during his walk – this must be a bad part of town – but he glanced at the street anyway. On the other side, about half a block down, light streamed from a 24-hour market; the kind of place that sold alcohol and tobacco of every description – and milk. Charlie swallowed thirstily, thinking about the milk, and focused on the blinking "ATM" sign that hung over the sidewalk in front of the store. He waited for a couple out for a stagger to pass him before he darted away from the building and hurried toward the market.

In the short span of time it took for him to reach the pool of light, Charlie had convinced himself that the market represented all things good and decent in life. It was a little disconcerting, then, to step gingerly over the aged black man slumped just to the left of the doorway, gripping an empty bottle and snoring. Charlie looked down at him apprehensively, but the snore assured him that the man was alive, so he tracked the ATM to a front corner and scurried toward it.

His relief was coming in almost-debilitating waves as he inserted the card and punched in his access code, agreeing to pay a 2.50 service charge to use the machine. Cash. He would get some cash, buy some milk, pay the bored cashier to call him a cab, and go home. Cash. It was a lovely, lovely thing. He almost smiled when the card spit back out toward him, followed by a receipt, and he looked around for the place where the money would appear. After several seconds, he found it – why did they make all these machines different? – and sensed an impatient presence behind him. He hoped whoever it was wanted a turn at the machine, and wasn't waiting to relieve him of his money…which was not appearing, for some reason.

"Move on," ordered a deep, gravelly voice frighteningly close to his ear. "It ain't coughin' up no jackpot, buddy, it ain't a poker machine." The inadvertent use of Don's favorite nickname for him nearly brought tears to Charlie's eyes as he longed for the safety of his brother; even while the vision of Don inspired him to achieve greatness.

He spun around and confronted the sour face of the slightly disheveled man behind him, holding up his receipt in a shaking hand. "I have a receipt," he insisted in a wavering voice. "I'm waiting for the money." The taller, older man was disturbingly close, and Charlie backed into the ATM machine. "Could you give me a little room, please?"

The man laughed, showing off a mouth missing several teeth. He looked at the receipt in Charlie's hand and then let his eyes roam up and down the professor's body. "Hell, yeah, I'll give you a room, boy. We can get one right next door. Since that box ain't giving you nothin', I'll even pick up the bill. Maybe give you a little something for your time, if you leave me in a good mood."

A wave of revulsion rose in Charlie's throat and it was all he could do to press it down and not throw up all over the disgusting stranger. He tried to back up farther, but was stopped by the solid machine. "I have a receipt," he repeated, and his knees nearly buckled when he recognized the store's cashier looming behind his assailant. He shoved the slip of paper in her direction. "I have a receipt," he repeated a third time, unable to say anything else.

The fiftyish, graying, 200-lb. woman reached out a bulky hand to grab the paper. "Back off, Billy," she ordered the stranger. "I done told you, no pick-ups in this here establishment. You want I should call the cops?"

_Yes, please,_ answered Charlie silently. Billy growled something unintelligible and wandered toward the back of the store, shooting Charlie one last dirty look.

The woman puckered her brow as she read the receipt, then offered it back to Charlie. "This here says you've reached your daily limit," she explained as he hesitantly moved to reclaim the receipt. "Cain't you read, shugah?"

"What?" Charlie glanced at the paper and saw that she was correct. He'd already withdrawn all the cash he was allowed that day. He knew his bank had a 300-dollar ATM withdrawal limit – the theory had something to do with discouraging robbery – but where was it, if he had withdrawn it already? Was there another hidden pocket in these infernal shorts?

The clerk shrugged. "It's almost midnight," she pointed out. "You can try again in about 20 minutes."

She might as well have told him to go to the hotel with Billy, and Charlie's eyes welled up with tears. "I want to go home," he choked. "I need to go home."

She took pity on him – he _was_ pretty pathetic – and sighed. "Look, I'll call you a cab – the driver will just use your card, so you don't need no cash." Charlie sniffed and looked at her so gratefully, she weakened further and offered some more details. "Cabs don't like it down in these parts, much," she shared. "Why don't you just keep walking South, and I'll have one meet you? I'll give 'em the address of St. John's Episcopal; 'bout half-a-mile more -- you think you can do that?" Charlie nodded silently, and she continued. "St. John's runs a shelter," she confided quietly. "You know… 'case you decide you're…too tired…to go home?"

Charlie drew himself up to his full 5 ft. 9 inch height, and brushed a trembling hand at his face. "I have a home," he said, trying for his most authoritative voice. Unfortunately, to his own ears it was less than impressive. He started to twist past the woman's bulk, headed for the door. "Thank-you for your assistance. Please have a cab meet me at St. John's."

She held up her hands in mock surrender, turning back toward the counter. "Sure," she promised, smacking her gum and reminding him again of Don. "Whatever."

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Charlie didn't think the night could get much worse – but then he gave his address to the taxi driver, who fed it into his GPS and frowned. "I ain't sure where that is," he admitted as they idled at the curb in front of St. John's.

Charlie shivered in the back seat, considering asking the driver to turn on the heat – or at least turn off the air. "What kind of cab driver are you?" he asked irritably. "It's in one of the most prestigious historical sections of Pasadena; it's a well-known area!"

The driver grunted and started jabbing at the GPS again. "That explains it," he muttered. "You do understand that you're in Riverside?" He glanced at Charlie's plastic, safe in the dash receptacle. "You sure you got enough for this? I mean, I'll be glad to take you, but it's almost 60 miles. Two dollars for the pick-up plus 1.75 a mile; by all rights I should double that, so's I can get back to Riverside -- that's…"

"212.00 dollars, I know," Charlie interjected wearily. It was a ridiculous amount of money and he should get out and walk to the nearest bus station, but he just wanted to go home. "Look," he suggested, "just run the card now; make it an even 300.00, and keep the change. Please."

The driver cheered up considerably, and did as Charlie suggested. He didn't even mind that his passenger made the entire trip in silence, and he gave up the attempts at small talk about 15 miles in, and concentrated instead on planning how he was going to spend his windfall.

In the end, Charlie had him pull over a block before the Craftsman. It was now a little past one in the morning, and the last thing he wanted to do was wake up his father and face a myriad of questions to which he did not even know the answers. He recovered his debit card from the driver and stepped out into the still-hot air. Charlie had been on the verge of cold in the air-conditioned cab, not used to wearing such revealing clothing, no matter what the weather; but he broke into a sweat the instant he stepped outside.

In the few minutes it took to walk home, rivulets of the stuff was running down his body, and he was desperate for a shower.

When he stopped at the garage for the spare key to the house, it occurred to him that the noise of a shower also held potential to awaken his father, and once again he felt tears gather at the back of his eyes. He could not survive without a shower for another five minutes, let alone the rest of the night; neither could he face his father. He thought for a moment, then removed all of his offending clothing in the shadow of the garage. He flip-flopped to the trash a few feet away and placed it inside – he never wanted to see those shorts or that t-shirt again, anyway. Then he continued on to his mother's roses in the back of the house. After all these years, it had come to this.

Charlie was virtually naked in the middle of the night in his own back yard…about to take a shower with a garden hose.

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Alan, seated at the kitchen table, looked up from the morning newspaper as his oldest son dragged in through the back door. "Mornin' Donny," he greeted. "Hot enough for you?"

Don fell listlessly into the chair at the opposite end of the table, facing his father. "God, this heat is awful. I don't even want to tell you what it does to a perfectly ordinary crime scene."

Alan made a face, folding the paper and setting in on the table. "Kindly leave the details to my imagination," he requested dryly. He scooted back his chair a little and prepared to stand. "It's a little early for beer, but we have some nice bottled water in the fridge."

Don groaned. "Please. I'd pay you for it, but it's too much trouble to go for my wallet."

Alan laughed and crossed to the refrigerator, opening the door to retrieve the water and standing for a moment in the cool air that escaped. "Ah…" he breathed. He tried to find an excuse to stand in the open door longer. "Do you want some breakfast?"

"No, thanks," Don answered immediately. "I really was just at a pretty disgusting crime scene; couldn't quite handle it yet."

Alan frowned slightly. Don wasn't usually put off by things like that – it must have been very bad. He grabbed the water and closed the refrigerator door, turning to walk back to the table. "So what brings you over on a Sunday morning? Did you bring laundry?"

Don accepted the water, twisting the cap, and smiled. "When we were finished at the scene, I figured out this place was closer than my apartment. I'm not on call the rest of the day – you want to drive out to the lake? Maybe it'll be cooler by the water."

Alan grinned mischieviously. "That sounds good," he began, "but I think I have some interesting news first." Don drank half the bottle in one gulp and raised his eyebrows. Alan sat down again, this time in the chair closest to Don. "I think Charlie and Amita may have moved to the next step," he whispered.

Don lowered the bottle. "Wow." He wasn't sure what he thought about that, on a couple of different levels. For one thing, it just seemed wrong for his father to be so interested in his brother's sex life. For another, the road back from Mark Danielson had been long and difficult for Charlie. He had taught half-time the last three months of the semester, but he was still silent and solitary most of the time he wasn't actually in a class. Oh, Don had known that he and Amita were seeing each other again, starting at square one; he just wasn't convinced Charlie should be moving this fast, this soon. "Why do you say that?"

His father winked. "Yesterday was her birthday, and Charlie left bright and early to take her some flowers. I didn't even hear him come home, last night." At Don's look of alarm, he hurried on. "Oh, he's up there, sleeping on top of his bed, so he came home at some point. Still, it was almost midnight when I turned in, and he wasn't home yet." He smiled broadly. "I'm guessing the flowers were a hit."

Don shrugged, not wanting to rain on the old man's parade – although a little rain right now would certainly be welcome – and was glad when the house phone rang, interrupting Alan's gloat. The man shot out of his chair and across the kitchen to grab the phone from the wall before the shrill ringing woke up Charlie. "Good morning," he greeted. Don emptied his bottle of water, and listened to his father get even happier. "Amita, sweetheart! How are you, dear? How was your birthday?" Don rolled his eyes. Good grief, was Alan going to ask if Charlie tied her orgasms in a bow, next? "Yes, dear, he's here, but he's still sleeping." Don could practically hear the wink in Alan's voice. "He was out late last night." Then the tone changed, and Don found himself swiveling in his chair to watch his father carry on his end of the conversation. "Oh. I…oh. Well, that's a shame, a shame. I'm sure something came up – maybe something at school?" Alan winced. "Ah, that's true; finals are pretty much 'final'." He listened for a few more moments and then promised Amita he would have Charlie call as soon as he made an appearance. His demeanor when he returned the phone to its cradle was decidedly less chipper. Alan dragged a little as he returned to the table. "Hmphf," he grunted, sitting back at the end by his newspaper.

Don rolled the empty bottle aimlessly on the table. "What?"

Alan sighed. "She's not angry, just a little disappointed. Charlie brought her the flowers, and they made plans for a birthday dinner last night. She said he didn't stay long, and he never came back to pick her up; she's actually wondering is she misunderstood and she was supposed to meet him somewhere. His cell has been going straight to voice mail." He looked at Don, confused. "Have you got him working on something?"

Don shook his head. "Nah, he's not doing anything for us." Charlie's apparent forgetfulness rang an alarm bell, but he repressed it, knowing his brother was safely sleeping upstairs. He attempted a half-hearted smile. "You know how he gets. Maybe he was holed up in his office all day working on cognitive emergence."

Alan sighed, picking up the paper again. "Those two will never get back together if he keeps doing things like forgetting her birthday dinner," he fretted.

Charlie stood frozen outside the swinging kitchen door, his hand holding it open just a few inches. He had forgotten Amita's birthday? How was that possible? He still remembered nothing between the drive home Friday evening and the park bench last night. He had no memory of taking her flowers, or of making a promise to her about dinner.

He backed away from the door, silently removing his hand and raising it to rub at his forehead. What the hell was happening to him?

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End, Chapter 2


	3. ThisTownAin'tBigEnough for the BothOfUs

**Title: ****GTB, Part II: Ramifications**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: ****See Chapter 1; stir in Chapter 2; sift. Repeat until mixture is a fine dust.**

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**Chapter 3: This Town Ain't Big Enough for the Both of Us**

Alan wiped his mouth on his napkin and leaned back in his chair, smiling fondly at Amita. "Thank-you for sharing your birthday dinner with me, dear. I don't believe I've ever had celebratory waffles, before!"

Amita laughed, glancing almost shyly at Charlie. "When he said he wanted to cook for me to make amends, I probably should have suspected – waffles cover a lot of sins, in my book, and Charlie knows it!" She pushed her own plate away and reached for the glass of milk that made every waffle meal complete. "I'm happy you could join us, Alan; I wanted to get a chance to say 'good-bye', anyway."

He raised an eyebrow. "You're leaving?"

Amita glanced at Charlie again, confused. "You didn't tell him?"

Charlie started to answer but Alan snorted in a strange combination of both derisiveness and good nature. "Who, the absent-minded professor here?" He shook his head. "It must be some impressive line of thought you've been persuing lately, son. I swear, you'd walk off and leave your head if all that hair wasn't weighing it down."

Charlie grimaced. "Dad! I apologized to Amita about Saturday, and she's fine with it; let it go." He heard the sharp note in his own voice, and grinned to disguise it. "Besides; she _likes_ my hair."

Amita blushed and smiled disarmingly at Alan, shrugging slightly. "Guilty," she admitted, and he laughed and shook his head while she continued. "I'm going to D.C. for a few weeks to stay with Larry and Megan. We've been trying to work on Hoggs-boson through e-mail, but there's no substitute for human interaction."

Alan winked. "I've been saying that for years."

Amita giggled and brushed a length of hair behind her ear. "Yes. Well. Anyway, we thought we'd get together for a few weeks of hard-core research. Larry was going to come here, but he was afraid he would be too distracted by old friends and we still wouldn't get anything done."

"A valid concern," noted Alan. "I would coerce at least one game of chess out of him, myself."

Amita smiled. "You may get that opportunity. I'll be teaching during the second summer session at CalSci, and I need to get back in time to prepare. Most importantly, I want to be back in time for the annual Eppes 4th of July barbecue! Larry and Megan are thinking of coming with me for a few days!"

Alan smiled broadly, and rubbed his hands together. "Wonderful! That's good news, on both accounts. We'll need to make it extra special this year, eh Charlie?"

Charlie had been thinking about the 1,500-dollar hole in his checking account, which he had discovered that morning when he did a little online research on…himself, of all things…and had missed most of the conversation. He looked up, startled. "What? Huh?"

Alan rolled his eyes. "I swear, Amita, you are a saint. An absolute saint."

She laughed and looked fondly at Charlie. "Trust me, Alan, I can get this way too. I suspect Larry and I will both be in fugue state the entire time I'm in Washington – Megan's the one who should be up for sainthood!"

Charlie's brow furrowed. "You're going to Washington?"

Amita playfully slugged him in the arm. "Now you're making fun of us," she admonished, and indicated Alan with a tilt of her head. "I was just telling your father about my trip, and that I'll be bringing Larry and Megan back with me for the 4th of July barbecue!"

Alan couldn't resist another shot. "Since some other people couldn't seem to remember to clue the old man in…"

Charlie reddened and looked at his plate, shiny with syrup. Syrup, of course, reminded him of… "Corn!" he practically yelled, glancing triumphantly at Amita. The word association had brought the conversation back to him; he now remembered talking to Amita about this – which was a definite plus, given the last few days. She was looking at him as if he'd finally gone over the edge, however, so he elaborated. "I asked you to make that corn, like you did last year. You know, you coat the ears with something and them wrap them in foil and we heat it on the grill?"

Alan smacked his lips. "I remember that corn. We'll need lots of that corn."

Amita shook her head. "Of course I'll bring it," she said. "Did you tell Don Megan was coming, and ask if the team is on call that day? It would be great if he and Colby and David could come and not worry about getting called out."

Charlie looked at her blankly. "I was supposed to talk to Don?"

Alan shoved his chair back from the table, and picked up his plate. "_I'll_ do it," he interjected. "I need to talk to him about whether or not I should invite both Robin and Liz, anyway. And that new fellow. The one from Vegas. Tom, is it?"

"Irvine," supplied Amita, standing herself and leaning to pick up her plate. "Tom Irvine."

Charlie's hand brushed hers as he stood and reached for the empty dinner plate himself. "I'll take care of it," he offered quietly. "I'm starting to think it's the least I can do."

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Jeff didn't have long, he was fairly certain of that. Some days it was more difficult to rise to the surface than others. Charlie was starting to suspect that something wasn't right; he knew now, for instance, that he was losing time, and that during that time he was apparently withdrawing money from his account. Jeff knew his bodymate well enough to know that he would keep digging. He also was reasonably sure that Charlie would not confide his frightening symptoms with anyone just yet; not even the doctor. Still, it bothered Jeff that Charlie and his brother had an appointment with Bradford soon. Charlie was always much stronger after those meetings; much harder to control.

On the other hand, Jeff might be able to work that to his advantage. He and Charlie shared the same subconscious, after all. He, Jeff, could plant messages there: _No-one can know; don't tell. It's bad; you're bad; don't tell._ He especially liked that last one – it reminded him of his brother, and was a continuation of the work Mark had already begun.

He scurried through the three-room walk-up, after carefully closing the door first, and crossed to the hole he had knocked in the kitchen drywall. The nearly-empty refrigerator hid the broken section of baseboard well; it had to be pulled out of place every time he wanted access, and then pushed back into place. Still he meticulously replaced the broken pieces every time he was finished fishing out the sock full of money.

He could feel the building headache of Charlie struggling to get out, and he hurried to count out five hundred-dollar bills for the tenement's landlord. In the past three weeks, he had managed to get his hands on almost 1,500 of Charlie's dollars. It was a start, but he needed more. Jeff had to find a better way to get money than the debit card, or he would never have enough to buy that little place in the woods. It had started as Mark's dream, but now it was Jeff's as well. He would bring it full circle. He would use Charlie and his money and his memories to get what he wanted. When the cabin was his, he would come out permanently. He would never let Charlie see the light of day again – not until he was Mark. The two of them would be together forever, sharing the former Charles Eppes as host.

First, though, he had to find a way to weaken Charlie; and a way to access more of his money. He wouldn't mind punishing everyone else while he was at it, but at this point that would have to be gravy. He pushed the refrigerator back into place and looked around.

He staggered, and knew he didn't have much longer, today. In desperation he moved to the kitchen sink. Although it disturbed him to do so, he lifted a half-empty bottle of tequila from the counter and poured its contents down the drain. Then he shielded his eyes with one hand and brought the bottle down hard over the high molded fiberglass partition that divided one side of the sink from the other. It took three hits before the neck of the bottle broke off and fell into the left side of the sink. Quickly, gritting his teeth and reminding himself that the pain wasn't really his, he dropped the remainder of the bottle and picked up the jagged bottleneck, which he drew down his left arm in one decisive, fluid movement, opening up a four-inch laceration before he cried out and dropped the glass. He wound a dirty dish towel around the bleeding arm; not as an attempt at first aid – he needed to disguise the injury long enough to get his rent money to the super.

His head pounded and his arm throbbed and he wished he had thought to drink the tequila before he wasted it; but all-in-all, Jeff Danielson was satisfied with his day's work.

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Charlie jolted awake in a hard plastic chair in a silent, sterile room, and understood immediately from the smell of disinfectant and the hushed urgency that he was in a hospital waiting room. He just had no idea how he got there, or why he had come. He did have a horrendous headache, but it had not reached migraine proportions, so that was a worthless clue. He searched the walls frantically for a clock. He was supposed to meet Don for lunch before they went to their joint session with Bradford together, and the last thing he clearly remembered was waiting at a stop light about six blocks from the restaurant where they were supposed to meet. Now, here he was again, in a strange place, without his Prius, and the clock was telling him he had lost almost an hour. Don would be pissed, and he had only 30 minutes to reach Bradford's office in the Huntington Medical Plaza. He didn't even know how far away that was.

He stood shakily, determined to find out, when a wave of pain radiated up his arm, making him gasp and look down. He was stunned to see a blood-soaked towel on his arm. What the hell?

He looked away, sickened and vaguely guilty – right into the kindly face of an aging nurse. "If you'll come with me, son, I'll take you to a suture room. We'll get that cleaned up and the doctor will practice his embroidery, and you'll make it upstairs in plenty of time for your appointment."

Charlie wondered if he looked as confused as he felt. "What? Upstairs?"

The nurse frowned. "Yes, upstairs. When you came in you were all a-flutter about missing an appointment with a Dr. Bradford on seven? At 2:30, you said."

Charlie was having trouble keeping up. "Am I at Huntington?"

Her frown grew deeper, and she placed a protective arm at his elbow. "Maybe you should sit back down; you've probably lost a lot of blood. I can get a wheelchair to take you back."

He nodded dumbly and let her guide him back into the chair. She promised to be right back and hurried off, and Charlie closed his eyes and tried to remember what he had done that had landed him here. He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and opened them again, expecting the nurse, and jerked backwards hard in the chair at the sight of Don's face hovering just a few inches from his own. "Shit!" he exclaimed.

Don smiled and sat down in the chair next to him. "Not the best welcome I've ever received, but it'll do. You okay, Buddy?"

Charlie blinked at him. He was pretty sure _not_; and also pretty sure he wasn't going to say so. "I cut my arm," he offered lamely.

Don nodded. "So you said when you called me at the restaurant. I was all ready to give you all kinds of hell during our session with Bradford, too. Way to take the wind out of my sails, Chuckles."

The elderly nurse was suddenly back with a wheelchair, saving Charlie from further comment. _He had called Don?_ His head was so fuzzy he missed most of the conversation the nurse and his brother had – something about Don waiting where he was for a few minutes while Charlie received treatment. Just before she pushed him away, though, his brother's face materialized in front of his again, a look of concern apparent. "Which one?" he asked.

Charlie frowned. "Which one?" he repeated.

Don's brow furrowed. "I asked if you wanted me to call Bradford and cancel, or if you'd be okay to go upstairs when the doc finishes sewing you up."

Charlie struggled mightily to pull himself together, wincing slightly as he shifted in the chair. "We can go," he answered. "I know you took the afternoon off for this."

"Don't worry about that," Don admonished. "If your arm hurts too badly…"

"No," Charlie interrupted. "It's okay. I just have a headache. Maybe they'll give me some aspirin."

The nurse smiled kindly at Don and patted Charlie on the shoulder. "We'll fix him right up," she promised. "I'll take him through the drive-thru and we'll be back before you know it."

Don uncertainly backed up a step. "Yeah, okay," he finally agreed. He put his hands on his hips, and his badge glinted where it was attached to his belt. "Just make sure you ask for that aspirin, please. He gets migraines, and that's the last thing we need."

Her eyes crinkled as her smile deepened. "Absolutely, officer," she promised. "I always cooperate with the law."

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Bill Bradford had raised an eyebrow at the sight of Charlie's bandaged forearm, but he waited for one of the brothers to bring it up. "So how have you both been?" he asked. "Don, I haven't seen you in a month, since your last joint session with Charlie." He leaned and looked at the notes in his file. "Charlie, your individual sessions are every third week, now. Has that worked out well for you?"

Don answered for him, plunging right in. "I don't think it's often enough," he stated plainly.

Charlie looked at his brother in shock, blindsided. "Don!"

Don refused to look at him, concentrating instead on Bradford. "He's very forgetful, and distracted – last weekend he made a date with Amita for her birthday and then forgot to show up. He gets a lot of headaches, and look at his arm! Twelve stitches, and I'm not convinced he even knows how he did it!"

Bradford looked at Charlie. "Do you have a response to that?"

Charlie slumped in his chair, his face dark with anger. He, too, refused to look at his brother – but he wasn't looking at Bradford, either. Rather, he concentrated on his left foot, which was crossed over his right knee and bouncing rapidly. "I told you, I cut it on a sharp piece of metal sticking out of the dumpster at school. I was cleaning out my office." He looked up at Bradford, beligerant. "He doesn't believe me."

Don sighed. "You gotta admit, Charlie, it took you three tries to come up with that story. You're distracted again, and you have another headache. You said so yourself."

Charlie risked a glare in Don's direction. "I've had finals, Don; you know I'm always this way during finals! It's a very stressful time!"

Bradford looked back at Don. Funny, these joint sessions with the brothers often left him feeling as if he'd been at a tennis match. "That sounds reasonable."

Charlie latched on to an allied force. "Plus, plus, Amita just left for three weeks. We're just regaining some…intimacy…and it's frustrating timing." Don looked away, not at all sure he wanted to hear about Charlie's intimacy issues with Amita.

"Don," suggested Bradford, "perhaps we should all discuss our expectations for ourselves and each other, again. These seem like reasonable and rational explanations to me, and yet I sense your discomfort."

_Crap,_ thought Don. _Damn little dweeb turned the tables on me again._

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Bradford ended the session a few minutes early. The brothers had resumed a fairly peaceful and interactive relationship, and he could tell Charlie's arm and head were still bothering him. The doctor rose from his easy chair and moved to the desk, where he picked up his calendar and studied it. "I'm not sure what to do about our next set of appointments," he admitted. "Charlie, I can schedule your next individual session in three weeks, but that will be my last day in the office for several weeks myself. I always take the bulk of July off; this summer I will be traveling back East the week after the 4th, to see my son in Philadelphia; and then my daughter in New York. I really would like to see the two of you together again before I leave – and it's time to bring Alan in on a session, soon."

Charlie made a suggestion, out of nowhere; he didn't know where it came from himself. "You're not leaving until after the 4th? Dad – well, me, too – we want you to come to the barbecue we always have at the house. It just happens to be situated so that we can see the fireworks really clearly from the backyard, and it's become an annual thing. A lot of people will be there, so it wouldn't be like a formal session, but you'd get the chance to see us all interacting together." He glanced at Don. "Did you find out yet if the team is on call?"

Don smiled. "Turns out there is payback for working on Christmas and New Year's Eve – we were on call both weekends, so we're off on the 4th. Tell Dad to stock up on the beer."

Charlie smiled, and looked back at Bradford. "That way, we can keep my individual sessions on schedule and you'll get a chance to spend some time with all of us before you go." His misfiring synapses made a connection and he rambled an addendum nervously. "Of course, it that's not a good idea, we still want you to come."

"Absolutely," Don echoed. "Bring beer."

Bradford laughed and started scribbling in his date book. "Ordinarily, it's not the way I would conduct a session," he answered. Closing the date book, he looked back at the Eppes brothers. "But I have come to expect the extraordinary in my dealings with the Eppes family. Have your father call and tell me what time to arrive" – he winked at Don – "and how much beer to bring."

"He's not on-call," jabbed Charlie unexpectedly. "Just bring an IV; he'll mainline it."

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End, Chapter 3


	4. Think Like Don

**Title: ****GTB, Part II: Ramifications**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: ****All-right.**

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**Chapter 4: Think Like Don**

Charlie tried to think like Don. The trouble with that was, he was too scared to do much thinking at all.

Since Amita left, there was less chance his disappearing acts would be found out. On the other hand, there was also less reason for him to disappear. He wasn't teaching this summer, having decided instead to concentrate on Cognitive Emergence and other research and writing projects; he thought that maybe he could even start consulting for Don again. Both he and Millie also hoped that he would be well-rested and recovered enough to take on his usual full class load in the fall; but that plan wasn't panning out too well so far. His father knew that when Charlie wasn't teaching, he preferred to work in the garage -- if he was on campus, students would find him, and eat up most of his day. Charlie wasn't sure how long he could sell the excuse that he was busy on campus.

Truth was, he was still losing time. Sometimes small chunks, sometimes entire days. Again, he had come to his senses in the middle of the night in a completely foreign location, wearing clothes he didn't recognize. This time he was on a bus. That was confounding in and of itself, but then he discovered it wasn't even a city bus. It was a Greyhound®, and he was on his way to Barstow. It had taken him the rest of the night to get back home. This time there was no debit card to save him, and all he could find in his shiny polyester slacks was seven dollars. The heat wave was over, but even a normal June in Southern California was warm, and Charlie was in a 1980s leisure suit hitchhiking on the highway half the night.

The sun was up and the neighbors were out when he finally arrived at the Craftsman, so Charlie wasn't able to strip in the yard as he had before. He hesitated at the back door long enough to come up with a false story about a 80s-themed costume party for a fellow faculty member, and then snuck in as quietly as he could. The excuse wasn't much, and he knew it; but Charlie was too exhausted to come up with anything better.

His father was already awake – Charlie could hear the shower running as he covertly tip-toed up the stairs -- but he yanked off the offensive clothing, stashing it in the corner of the closet, and fell into bed anyway. Maybe Alan had not had time to check on him yet. He might not, anyway, since Charlie didn't have a class waiting for him.

In the end, no mention of his late arrival was ever made, at least not in any conversation Charlie could remember – so his hypothesis regarding his father's predictability must have been correct. Still, it was while he was lying there waiting for Alan to leave on his morning errands, his heart pounding, that he decided to think like Don.

He had not consulted on any cases since Mark Danielson, but he had consulted on plenty before then. He knew he needed to gather evidence, and establish a pattern. As soon as he heard his father's car back out of the driveway, Charlie sprang out of bed and dashed to the bathroom to shower, himself. Then he dressed in the jeans and t-shirt that served as his usual uniform, grabbed the cheap suit out of the closet and ran down the stairs and out the back door, where he shoved it into the bottom of the trash can, covering the fabric with the kitchen trash bag he had remembered to bring for just that purpose. Hurrying back into the house, he powered up his laptop on the kitchen table and was shocked to see how low the balance was in his checking account. There was a 2,000-dollar withdrawal three days before that left him in a dangerous position for the monthly utility bills, due for automatic withdrawal soon. He quickly transferred 5,000 from his money market, and then called the bank on his cell.

"This is Charles Eppes," he told the woman who answered, supplying his account number. "I've been checking my accounts online, and I'm seeing a rather large withdrawal. Can you tell me anything about that?"

He could hear the tapping of computer keys for several seconds before the customer service rep answered him. "Yes, Dr. Eppes. I see you also transferred some money this morning. You were actually on my list to phone, later. We like to give our best customers the opportunity to avoid those potentially ugly overdraft charges!"

"Right," murmured Charlie. "The withdrawal?"

More tapping. "Well, there are many smaller ATM withdrawals, as you know, but according to our records this one was made in person at the North L.A. branch, with a teller withdrawal slip. I'm looking at a scanned copy of it now, and the signature appears to be a match. Is there a problem, sir?"

What was Charlie supposed to say to that? _Please don't give me my own money?_ And the North L.A. branch? He didn't even know where that was. "Uh, no," he stammered. "But I am...going out of the country soon and I'm not sure for how long. My brother is an F.B.I. agent, and I hear all sorts of terrible stories concerning financial fraud. I wonder, is it possible to put a freeze on most of my funds, so that they cannot be accessed by anyone? You know, in case I lose my ID at the airport again or something, and somebody finds it…"

"Of course, sir," she answered smoothly. "You understand that should you require access yourself during the time your accounts are frozen, your request will be denied. Any automatic deposits or withdrawals will continue to be posted, but all other activity will be halted. It's not something we do very often, for obvious reasons."

"I understand," Charlie assured her. "Do I need to come in and sign something?"

"That won't be necessary," she answered. "You can answer a few questions and give me your secure password verbally so that I can confirm your identity. Then I just need the dates you would like the accounts frozen; the entire amount in each account, sir, or would you like to leave yourself a cushion?"

_I would like to shove a cushion over my face and take a deep breath_, thought Charlie, contemplating the possibilities. How long could he live on how much? How much time would pass before he figured out what was going on, and stopped it? "Leave my checking account fluid," he finally decided, "and...and 2,000 of my money market. I'd like a 30-day freeze on the remainder." When he had given all the right answers to all the right questions, he meticulously noted the name of the representative and a confirmation number on a scrap of paper. When he disconnected, he opened a new Word document and typed a synopsis of what he'd done, including the confirmation information there, creating an evidence trail. For who, and under what circumstances, he was still unsure; but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Closing his lap top, Charlie next went back outside to his Prius. He dragged the trash can close to the vehicle and spent two hours cleaning it out, searching for anything he didn't recognize. Notes, receipts. A discouraging amount of trash went into the bin, and a growing pile started on the lawn of things he needed to take back into the house. Books, a pair of tennis shoes, a bottle of shampoo... unfortunately, he remembered, more or less, putting all of those things into the car. He was about to give up the search as a bad job, climbing out of the driver's seat and preparing to slam the door, when the glint of a dime flashed from the floorboard and he leaned back into the car to pick it up. It was then he found the wadded piece of paper under the seat. Spreading it out flat on the roof of the Prius, he saw an address. It appeared to be in East L.A., and he didn't recognize it, or remember needing to go to East L.A. anytime recently. Stomach churning, he gathered the pile of belongings off the lawn and carried them into the garage, dropping them on the floor just inside the door. Then he dragged the trash can back to its home behind the building, away from the street, and returned to the house to lock the doors and grab his cell.

Charlie was going to East L.A.

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Jeff was livid.

He had heard Charlie on the phone with the bank, and he knew what he had done. The most he could hope to get his hands on how was another six or seven thousand dollars. He had started trying to gain dominant control right away, but Charlie had been too strong for him. Maybe dressing him in that suit and sending him to Barstow as a joke hadn't been that great an idea, after all -- he seemed to be drawing some sort of motivation from the experience. Worse yet, the little jerk had gone to the apartment. The super had recognized him, and it was only a matter of time before Charlie had figured out he rented an apartment there. Now he was perching on the edge of the futon, his cell plastered to his ear, calling his brother, and Jeff could not have that.

He. Could. Not. Have. That.

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Jeff smiled beatifically when the brother answered with his typical "Eppes". He could feel Charlie struggling to reassert himself, but he didn't have a chance, this time. He could press his face up against the glass and scream all he wanted.

This was Jeff's body, now.

"Donny," he purred into the cell. "I was just dowtown, and I thought I'd call and see if you were free for lunch?" He listened happily to the positive response. This arrangement could have additional benefits. Maybe his cash flow was temporarily impinged, but he could use the time to set this guy up and then take him down. Him, the father, the girlfriend...all of them.

Every last stinking one.

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End, Chapter 4


	5. Tug of War

**Title: ****GTB, Part II: Ramifications**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: ****All-right.**

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**Chapter 5: Tug of War**

Jeff was having a marvelous time; tapping thespian resources he didn't even know he had.

His lunch with the brother had been spectacular. He had begun laying the groundwork right away, apologizing profusely for his recent distractions, claiming he had moved on to another phase of "the work" – hell if he even knew what "the work" was – and things would soon be under control again. They had discussed the upcoming barbecue, only two weeks away. Jeff had even listened in feigned interest when Don waxed almost poetic about his recently renewed relationship with some bimbo prosecuting attorney.

On the home front, the father had picked up on Jeff's more relaxed attitude right away, and was thrilled when 'his son' stopped having memory problems.

Amita even noticed a difference over the phone, and spoke with excitement of her imminent return. These conversations were the most difficult for Jeff; the loose woman disgusted him. Mark was right, no self-respecting female would have anything in common with this whore. She was flying into LAX with her friends on July 3, and would spend the evening "making Charlie's corn" – Jeff did not even want to contemplate what that meant. At least he wasn't expected to pick everybody up at the airport; Charlie's calendar showed his next appointment with Bradford was scheduled to start just a few minutes before the afternoon flight landed, and they agreed to see each other early on the 4th. Amita would "bring the corn". Jeff shuddered, and hoped he could avoid shucking the ears.

As the days melted into each other, Jeff was rewarded with a few delicious surprises. The first occurred when, only days apart, both the father and the brother nonchalantly handed over their unopened bank statements. Jeff didn't have a clue what was happening until the unfailingly-polite Alan Eppes thanked Charlie for keeping things balanced for him. It was then that Jeff understood that Charlie had access to the entire family's money, and he ripped apart the wimp's bedroom looking for a list of passwords so he could take a look-see himself. The first day, he resorted to hacking attempts, guessing at passwords like 'Amita', and the Craftsman's street address. The bank cut him off for 24 hours after three tries, so Jeff searched the garage. Both locations were already disturbingly messy; he had no fear his actions would be discovered, because nothing looked any different after the ransacking.

On the third day, he was going to try hacking again when Don dropped by after work and asked if everything had looked kosher with his bank statement. Jeff had tried to look chagrined. "I might be a few more days," he explained. "I forgot the passwords again. I'll have to hack."

Don had rolled his eyes and opened the refrigerator for a beer. "Charlie, why don't you set up new ones? Use numbers this time; with your photographic memory for numbers, you won't keep forgetting." He offered Jeff a beer and patted him fondly on the shoulder. "Although how you can forget 'koi' and 'g-man' so easily never fails to entertain me."

Jeff smiled, genuinely grateful for the assistance. "You're probably right," he said, and before he dashed upstairs to try again he took the time to match the brother through three beers. He rather enjoyed that; since taking over as Charlie, Jeff had been forced to cut down on his alcohol consumption and was reduced to sneaking smokes behind the garage. When Don started looking surprised at his new-found fondness for beer, however, Jeff had excused himself and wandered up the stairs to the lap top he had left in Charlie's bedroom.

A quick look at the F.B.I. agent's account – singular – convinced him to leave it alone for the time being. Apparently, Don lived pretty close to the line. Federal agents might have great benefits, but either those didn't include decent pay, or he was spending everything on the attorney. Surely it couldn't be going toward his wardrobe – how much could seven pair of black denim jeans cost? No, Don was playing it close enough that he would undoubtedly notice a few missing pesos right away; Jeff didn't need to alert a federal agent to any potential foul play. After all, he'd been one for a while himself; missing moola was the sort of thing a man like Don would be all over.

The father, though…holy hell. Jeff felt as if he'd won the lottery on that one. It was the freakin' _motherlode_, making even Charlie's accounts dismal in comparison. Alan Eppes had liquid assets of nearly a quarter of a million dollars; no way would he miss one of his 50,000-dollar money markets for quite some time, if ever. Jeff was just about to transfer a tidy little wad into Charlie's account when he remembered the freeze. "Shit," he swore softly at the lap top. Then he looked again at the name of the bank – it was different from the one Charlie used, which was actually a credit union. The main branch was very near CalSci – it probably had some kind of relationship to his faculty position. Whatever; the gist was, he did not have an account at Alan's bank.

But he was about to open one.

There was still enough in Charlie's checking account for the 100-dollar minimum deposit to open a new account. It would be difficult, but Jeff would wait until the next day to make a little transfer, from father to son. The meek might inherit the earth, but the proactive could sell it out from under them.

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The longer he lived successfully as Charlie, the bolder Jeff became.

He was even eagerly anticipating the appointment with Bradford. Sad little Charlie had all sorts of issues to choose from. Jeff was almost sorry he didn't have longer than an hour to play with Dr. Idiot, and he controlled himself with effort. If he made Charlie look like too much of a basket case, Bradford might talk to the brother and the father, or up his therapy. No sense in inviting closer scrutiny. Still, he allowed himself to play the put-upon victim for almost half of the session, even resorting to tears once. "I just wish I had more energy," he sniffed. "I miss consulting for Don." He looked up guiltily at the psychiatrist. "I mean, the F.B.I. I miss consulting for the F.B.I."

It was almost a letdown, it was so predictable when Bradford took the bait. "Charlie, have you really thought about why you spend so much more time consulting for the F.B.I. than you do, say, the CDC, or the Coast Guard? Perhaps it's a way to be physically close to your brother – is it possible you are sub-consciously substituting that physical closeness for the emotional one you feel denied? Imagine that he were to transfer, or retire from the Bureau; would you still consult as regularly?"

Oh, please. This was easy enough without Bradford setting him up like that. He leaned forward in his chair, hiccupping and trying to look frightened. "What? Why? Has he said something? Is Don moving? Is he leaving?" _You have no idea what Charlie's sub-conscious is capable of_, he added silently. Jeff allowed Bradford to take his time calming 'Charlie' down, and then he finished out the session with small talk.

Eventually the conversation turned to the upcoming barbecue, and Jeff was a little surprised when the doctor asked for directions and asked what Don's favorite beer was. So, the good doctor would be among the crowd, he mused. From talk around the house, everybody they all knew would be there, from Don's coworkers to Alan's business partner to faculty from CalSci. Jeff would have to rest up and put on a stellar performance. At least with such a large audience, there would be legitimate reason for him not to spend too much time with anybody. The 4th was on a Friday this year; by the following Monday, the funds he had stolen from Alan would be cleared for further action. Between Charlie's contribution and Alan's, Jeff now had close to 60,000 dollars; surely he could find a nice little piece of land up in the hills for that kind of down payment, especially in today's market.

All Jeff had to do now was gather all his cash and file a name-change petition with the courts. While he was waiting for the new name to be approved, Jeff would have plenty of time to make up his mind regarding how he would dispose of them all. Something simple and fairly difficult to figure out, like arsenic poisoning? Or something more 'in-your-face', such a shooting, so that they died believing their beloved Charlie had gone off his rocker at last? Ah, the possibilities were endless. Although it rankled just a tad that he could not live as himself, Jeff knew that it would be too easy to hunt down a Danielson. 'Mark' was a common name, however, so he would include that as a tribute to his brother. The rest he had taken from his favorite race car driver and his favorite breakfast cereal.

Dale Mark Pebbles was just days away.

Charlie Eppes?

He was gone forever.

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The party started early, with Don showing up before 9 to do what he could to help. Bradford wasn't far behind. Jeff was not particularly comfortable with either of them, and was hoping the bulk of the crowd would show up soon. The brother was relentless with his interrogation about Amita, and soon Jeff left him shredding lettuce in the kitchen and took off for the koi pond, obstensibly to fetch Alan, who was showing the doctor the back yard. He looked longingly at the garage as he passed, wondering how long he could hide there before someone tracked him down, and was almost on top of the two older men before he knew it.

"…enjoyed building our first koi pond with Charlie so much," Alan was saying proudly. Jeff froze where he was, several feet behind the men, who were staring into the pond, their backs to him. The pondside bench and a few ferns stood between them. "It was nothing like this, our first one. Charlie was only seven, after all. Between the two of us we could have engineered something this impressive even back then, but I wanted to keep it simple so that we could build it together."

"Don didn't help?" queried Bradford.

Alan shook his head, and a small snort of laughter escaped. "Don't get me wrong, he grew to appreciate the fish; even now, he still comes out here sometimes. Back then, at 13? There was nothing besides baseball in that boy's life."

"I understand you encouraged that," remarked the doctor.

"Oh, I did," admitted Alan. "I'm not ashamed to say I was proud of the boy. I've always been proud of both my boys – still am. I coached some of Don's Little League teams, took afternoons off to catch as many of his games as I could, spent hours out here tossing baseballs with him. Yes, when they were growing up, it was almost as if each son had a parent. I spent a lot of time with Don, and Margaret spent a lot of time with Charlie."

Bradford stood silently for a moment. "I'm sure balancing the needs of two rather capricious boys was difficult – yet you must have managed. I fear that I concentrated mainly on myself while my children were young. Now, they are following in my footsteps. Two of my sons won't even make the time to visit with me on my upcoming trip back East."

Alan didn't even seem to be taken aback to suddenly be counseling the counselor. His genuine caring attitude began to prick at Jeff a little. If only his own father… "…did the best you could," Alan was saying when he tuned back into the conversation. "Most parents do. You were a police officer back then, weren't you?" Bradford nodded and Alan clucked, shaking his own head. "I sincerely hope Donny finds someone he can start a family with, but it will have to be a very understanding woman who produces very understanding children. A police officer requires…special handling."

It was Bradford's turn to snort in laughter. "So you and Charlie built your first pond when he was seven," he said, bringing the conversation back to the beginning.

"Yes," Alan confirmed. "I wanted to spend some time with him that wasn't all about…his gifts, you know?" The psychiatrist nodded and Alan mused aloud. "The koi still do that for us. We built this pond together also, and we work on the landscaping and the stocking of the fish together. I think Charlie finds it very peaceful." He shot a guilty look at Bradford. "At least I hope he still does."

"Why wouldn't he?"

Alan sighed. "Hasn't Don gotten around to telling you what that crazy man did to the koi while we were at your cabin?"

Jeff's ears perked up and Bradford grunted. "Ah. Yes, he mentioned that someone – most likely Mark Danielson – killed and gutted all of the koi and left the pond in carnage. He also told me," he continued, moving a little closer to Alan and lowering his voice so that Jeff had to strain to hear, "how you gave Colby and David a list and some money and begged them to restock the pond with exactly the same kinds of fish, so that Charlie would never have to know."

Alan sighed. "That was probably wrong."

The doctor disagreed. "On the contrary, I think it was very loving."

Unfortunately, so did Jeff. When Bradford pointed out a particularly frisky orange koi and Alan started a marine biology lesson, Jeff whirled and started back for the house. The conversation was making him…weak…making him remember. His father had never played ball with Mark, or built a fish pond with Jeff. He had been a drunken, abusive terror who hit them and their mother, and sent them to bed without dinner for infractions as miniscule as forgetting to call him "Sir". Jeff paused behind the garage, where a row of grills stood awaiting the day's events, and leaned against the building, breathing hard.

He had to focus.

He had not anticipated that Alan's unabashed love for and pride in his sons would bring back these memories, and make him wish for what could never be. He needed to remember that love was for the feeble, that they all deserved what they were going to get.

What he was going to give them.

He had to stay focused.

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End, Chapter 5


	6. Fireworks

**Title: ****GTB, Part II: Ramifications**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: ****I assure you, if I owned these boys, the world would be a much happier place – and not just because they would be naked much of the time.**

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**Chapter 6: Fireworks**

By 10 a.m., Amita had arrived with a car ful of professors and corn. Jeff was so relieved to discover that the foil-wrapped ears were actually corn, and not some strange sexual euphemism, that he allowed a shy smile to play across Charlie's features and accepted the light embrace the dark woman gave him before stepping to the side to allow her passengers access. Jeff recognized Larry from the cabin and at least two subsequent visits. Talk around the Craftsman and even the occasional photograph hanging in the house attested to the fact that this was a long-time, close friend of Charlie's, so he smiled broadly and extended a hand in greeting. "Larry, old friend," he hailed happily. "I'm so glad you could come!"

The other woman who had come in Amita's vehicle had been unloading several grocery bags and coolers from the trunk into the arms of Alan, Don and even Bradford. Jeff did not recognize her, and assumed she was someone from CalSci's faculty – although she did seem rather friendly with both Alan and Don, clutching at them like a two-dollar whore.

Still, he was completely unprepared for her to suddenly slam the trunk lid and screech, spying him near the front of the automobile. She flew at him in a cloud of honey-blond hair, wrapping long arms around him and babbling like a crazed person – and face it, Jeff should know a crazed person. "Charlie! God, it's so good to see you! I'm so sorry I haven't been able to come with Larry on one of his earlier trips." She pulled back, finally, after laying a wet one on his cheek, but stood disarmingly close as she continued to smile at him. To Jeff's utter dismay, she even winked. "New job, you know. It's been a busy transition – but at least it earned me overtime hours I was happy to cash in for this reunion!" Dear Lord, was that wuss Charlie cheating on his slut girlfriend with this willowy creature?

He backed up a step, and Larry moved up to wrap a possessive arm around the woman. "Megan, my sweet. I believe your enthusiasm may be a tad overwhelming to Charles." Jeff almost groaned aloud when he heard the woman's name. He remembered, now. Megan was the former agent from the L.A. office who had relocated to D.C., taking Larry with her. Apparently she was close to the entire Eppes clan, Charlie included. He swore silently to himself; he should have remembered who she was, and somehow ascertained her closeness to the family -- he should have been expecting her reaction. He glared over Larry's shoulder at Amita, who was standing near the grilling station with Alan now. If he hadn't been so preoccupied with pulling off a believable reunion with _her_, this never would have happened.

In growing agitation he barely heard Megan speak again over the buzzing in his ears. "Of course, Larry, you're right. Charlie, I didn't mean to startle you. I'm afraid I allowed my eagerness to see you to override my usual impeccable judgment!"

She grinned, and Jeff tried hard not to frown. Who was this woman, anyway? Fine, she was dating Charlie's best friend, and she had worked with his brother, but it didn't seem like either one of those facts lent themselves to this inappropriate level of familiarity. "Not at all," he ground out, taking another step backwards. "I should go into the kitchen, and…and…" – his eyes lighted again on Amita, who had her head thrown back, laughing at something Alan had said – "make sure Don didn't find that rib eye I had set aside for Amita and claim it for himself!"

Megan's eyes narrowed, and her smile turned upside-down. Her shoulders almost imperceptibly stiffened. "Absolutely," she responded smoothly. "I'm sure you'll be very busy hosting such a large party; we'll see each other later." Jeff smiled and turned away, swallowing convulsively and questioning for the first time exactly how prepared for this barbecue he really was.

When he had reached the back door to the kitchen, Megan turned a worried face to Larry. He recognized her distress and tried to reassure her. "I'm sure he'll warm up as the day goes on, dear. Don't you think it's good that he wanted to carry on the barbecue tradition this year?"

She shook her head. "It's not that," she murmured. "Amita has not eaten red meat in all the time we've known her. Charlie even keeps that small charcoal barbecue here so that her vegetarian soy products don't have to be heated up on a grill that also holds meat." She raised both eyebrows. "He put aside a rib eye for her?"

A shadow passed Larry's face. "Oh. My. That is somewhat disturbing." He glanced toward the house. "I do hope Charles' recovery has not been derailed since I saw him last; he has been doing so well."

Another vehicle pulled into the driveway behind them, and Megan's face relaxed into a smile again when she saw who it was. "It's Colby and David!" she crowed excitedly, pulling Larry with her as she started for the pick-up. "Hurry up, Fleinhardt!"

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Jeff was decidedly less satisfied with his arrangement than he had been since that afternoon in the East L.A. apartment, when with one masterful lunge of his superior intellect he had turned Charlie into mincemeat. He quickly learned that it was one thing to toy with Bradford for an hour in his office, and quite another to navigate a back yard full of minefields for hours on end. It was exhausting. He spent as much time in the kitchen as he could, and tried not to spend more than five minutes with any one group of people. Bodies were springing up from everywhere, though, and it was only a matter of time before a little of the real Jeff emerged.

He was standing with his father…with Alan, he was standing with Alan, cautiously nibbling a hot dog in the shade of the garage, when a Rubenesque woman in her fifties lumbered over, balancing a plate of potato salad in one hand and a beer in the other. She was still laughing raucously at something she had heard while seated at a nearby picnic table, and she jabbed the bottle in Jeff's direction. "Charlie!" she yelled, making him wonder just how many she had already consumed, "Charlie! Isn't it about time you manned-up and agreed to teach full-time this fall?" She winked broadly at Alan, and Jeff found himself taking an instant dislike to her.

He stared at her coldly. "I fail to see what business it is of yours _what_ I intend to do this fall," he huffed.

Her smile faded and something uncertain flashed in her eyes as she glanced quickly at Alan. "Charlie," admonished the older man gently. "Millie _is_ your boss, in a manner of speaking. Doesn't that sort of make it her business?"

What? Damn, Jeff should have plotted out this thing out on paper. Millie was Charlie's boss? He had figured out at some point during the day that she was a CalSci faculty member, but he thought she was someone Charlie was trying to fix up with Alan, or something. Son of a bitch, but she was annoying. Loud, and inappropriate. "That may well be," he sulked, "but this is a holiday party for friends and I do not appreciate being blindsided in this matter at my own home. I'm trying to relax, here!"

His voice had risen as he spoke, and now several people were looking in their direction. He could see Amita rising from her seat next to Larry and starting in his direction. "Wonderful," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "Here comes another one."

Millie reddened and took a faltering half-step back. "Of course," she said, at the same time that Alan gently touched his arm and again said Charlie's name. "No, no, Alan," Millie hurried on, smiling nervously. "Charlie is absolutely correct. This is not a day for discussing work; it is a day to celebrate that none of us are there!"

Amita appeared at his elbow then. "Is there a problem?" she asked.

Jeff sighed and tried to slip back into character. What would that spineless jellyfish Charlie do now? Much as it disgusted him, he thought he knew. He forced himself to smile at the young woman and leaned over to kiss her cheek chastely, successfully shocking everyone who was trying not to watch. "I'm sorry," he said morosely, moving his gaze from Amita to Millie to Alan. "Too much excitement, I think, combined with too long out in the hot sun. I've had a headache, but I've enjoyed seeing everyone so much – I didn't want to put a damper on the afternoon by retreating indoors to the air conditioning."

Amita snaked a shy arm around his waist and Jeff tried not to stiffen as Millie's smile grew more genuine. "Nonsense, Charlie. We'll all be here for hours; until the fireworks display at dusk. You shouldn't push yourself too hard."

Alan nodded. "Why don't you and Amita take your plates indoors and finish eating there, son? Take some aspirin."

Jeff nodded stiffly, offering them a sad smile that had to hit at least an 8 on the guilt scale, and allowed Amita to walk him back to the house.

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Jeff paced back and forth in Charlie's bedroom and berated himself thoroughly.

He had gotten cocky, and nearly blown everything. He was so close now to his dream -- so close. He never should have gone into a situation like the barbecue downstairs without better preparation. Before insulting Charlie's boss, after he had tried to feed meat to Charlie's vegetarian girlfriend, after he had not adequately anticipated the onslaught of Megan; he had found himself at a loss when standing in the open garage with David and Colby. He was sipping a brew, waiting to take on the winner at air hockey, and David had started reminiscing about a case from a couple of years before. Something about being assigned to protect Alan and Charlie at the house, and wiping Charlie out at air hockey before ending up shot. Jeff knew he was expected to fill in some blanks, contribute his own take to the story, but he had no idea what the black agent was talking about. Yes, he was completely aware that his psyche was in the midst of overtaking Charlie's, and he did have access to some recent and/or particularly disturbing memories on the surface of Charlie's sub-conscious. Plus, he had done some research over the last few months, since Charlie had brutally murdered Mark. But it was all he could do to keep Charlie from finding out about him, sometimes. He would punish and distract Eppes by abusing his body when Jeff was in control, by sending him to strange places and abandoning him there. When Charlie froze his own bank accounts and found the East L.A. apartment, Jeff knew the slimeball was getting too close and stepped his game up a notch -- but he did not have or want complete access to 30 years of memories; not yet, anyway. Jeff could no more join David's story than he could crochet a baby blanket, and he awkwardly changed the subject, backing to the door and offering to go find them all some more beer, even though no-one was nearing the end of their current bottle.

There were just too many of them, all the hell over the place, and they all seemed to want something from Charlie. Amita insisted on standing disturbingly close and occasionally touching him; he had a little difficulty figuring out if Don was dating Liz, Robin, or both at the same time, and exactly how he should be treating the women as Charlie. At least he has garnered some important information when Alan had introduced Robin to his friend Stan when Jeff was standing nearby, labeling her as a prosecuting attorney. If she hung around the L.A. courts, Jeff had better drive to Sacramento or somewhere to file his name change petition. Still, for every important speck of information he gained, he narrowly avoided half a dozen disasters. After lunch, for instance, the party was supposed to adjourn to the house for the bulk of the afternoon and early evening. While Don, Robin and at least two others went to a local driving range, Charlie was expected to join Amita, Larrry, Millie, Megan and Alan in the solarium for a round-robin chess tournament. Alan had set up two boards in that room this morning, and Millie had brought a third. Jeff knew absolutely nothing about chess, and chances were if these people were serious players -- and it certainly sounded as if they were -- he would be found out quickly.

He needed to find a way out of the remainder of the barbecue; and preferably most of the next two days, as well. As he paced, his eyes fell on the white-and-blue box of medication on the corner of the desk. Jeff had brushed over it, and a similar one in the top desk drawer, during his mad search for banking passwords. Imitrex®. There were two forms of the drug in Charlie's room -- an injectible, and a nasal spray. Obviously, there was an issue with migraines. The drugs weren't even kept down the hall in the bathroom, so he must need fairly quick access when felled by a headache. Jeff didn't know a lot about migraines, but surely, like most medical conditions, they could be made worse by stress. Everyone here knew Charlie had been under stress. What with killing another human being, and everything. Perhaps the barbecue could push him over the edge into a debilitating migraine. They all seemed well-meaning enough, but stress was stress. Right?

Jeff smiled, and crossed quickly to the desk, sitting to open up the lap top that lay there.

This called for a little Googling.

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Jeff was ready to launch a believable Operation Migraine by the time Alan rapped on his door a few hours later.

"Charlie? Son, may I come in?"

Jeff had been sitting quietly at Charlie's desk, searching the real estate websites, but now he closed the lap top quietly, leaned over to mess up the bed covers and then stood and crossed to the door. He wiped the smile off his face before he opened it. "Dad," he acknowledged quietly. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to ruin your day." He peered behind Alan's shoulder. "I should apologize to Millie."

Alan smiled in relief. Charlie seemed on a much more even keel. "It's all-right, son, we all understand. There's been a lot of activity around here the last few days -- I could use a nap myself! Are you feeling better now?"

"Yes," Jeff answered, allowing a sigh to escape. "I'm not sure I'm up for chess, though."

Alan looked a little disappointed but forged ahead. "That's okay; you and I can play anytime. Bill decided to join us, anyway." He glanced to the stairway and his eyes lit up as he looked back at Charlie. "Don, Robin, Colby and Stan are still at the driving range, but Liz and Ray-Ray are watching DVDs downstairs. You could join them."

Jeff nodded and smiled wanly, a faint and almost-imperceptible wince crossing Charlie's features.

Alan frowned. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Jeff shrugged. "I'll be fine," he insisted, pushing past Alan and heading for the stairs. "I'm looking forward to the fireworks."

Alan patted him on the back before turning to return to the solarium. "Well, it's a few hours yet. There's ice cream, and watermelon. I think there's some of that delicious corn left. Look in the fridge."

Jeff just grunted in reply and hit the stairs to implement Phase Two. First, he detoured into the kitchen for a bowl of ice cream, which he carried into the living room. Heavy curtains had been drawn against the bright afternoon sun, leaving the room in semi-darkness. Settling on the couch, he saw that Liz and Ray-Ray were close to the end of "Miami Vice" and arguing between two George Clooney movies for the next showing. Jeff ate a few bites of his ice cream and then set the bowl on the end table beside the couch. Liz was on the other end, legs curled under her body, toying with the remote. Jeff emitted a pathetic sigh just as the credits began to roll. "Could we turn down the volume on the next one?" he begged.

Ray-Ray, lying like a slug on the living room floor, rolled over onto his back and peered up at Jeff. "Still got a headache, dude?"

"Oh, it's not bad," Jeff answered, attempting a grin. He glanced at the melting ice cream. "Kind-of...pulsating, right above my left eye...I shouldn't have gotten this."

Ray-Ray followed his gaze. "I'll eat that," he volunteered, and Liz laughed, muting the sound and uncurling herself in preparation for changing the movie.

"He's had half a gallon already," she noted dryly. She reached up to switch on a lamp in the heavily-curtained room, so that she could see what she was doing.

Jeff leaned over to pass the bowl of ice cream to Ray-Ray and groaned slightly. "That's bright," he gasped.

Amita had just walked into the room, electing to join Charlie and bow out of the chess tourney, and she stood behind the couch chewing her lip. "Charlie," she finally observed, "are you getting a migraine?"

Jeff twisted his head to look at her, and winced again. "Oh, no," he said, disappointment dripping from his voice. "I don't want to miss the fireworks!"

Ray-Ray, sitting up on the floor now, slurped down some chocolate-chip mint and exchanged a glance with Amita. He moved as if to clamber to his feet. "Maybe we should just call it a day..."

"No, no," insisted Jeff, "please don't. My Dad has worked so hard on this barbecue -- it's his favorite event all year! You have to stay for the fireworks."

Liz was standing uncertainly in front of the DVD player, George Clooney in her hand. "But Charlie, if you have a migraine..."

Jeff stood, a little wobbly, allowing Amita to grasp his upper arm. "I'll just go up to my room and take some Imitrex®," he promised. "It'll put me out for a couple of hours, at least; maybe I can come back down and join everyone later." Jeff already knew Alan well enough to know that as long as he had a house full of people, he would play the consummate host. If Jeff could talk them into staying while he hid out in Charlie's room, they could all entertain each other and he could stretch the migraine out for the whole damn weekend. "Please say you'll stay," he begged pathetically. "It means so much to me that you're all here."

Liz finally smiled at Amita. "Go ahead and tuck him in; I'll put George on hold for a few minutes." Her smile turned into a wicked grin. "Hell, I've held worse things in this hand."

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End, Chapter 6


	7. Push Me, Pull You

**Title: ****GTB, Part II: Ramifications**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: That's right. I said 'naked'.**

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**Chapter 7: Push-Me Pull-You**

By noon on Saturday, when Don stopped by the Craftsman, Jeff was going stir-crazy. He had managed to milk the migraine for all it was worth without Alan calling 9-1-1 the day before, and had been more or less content to be left alone in Charlie's bedroom for the remainder of the holiday. He found a few games buried on the lap top and he amused himself for a while trying to figure them out, but they were like nothing he had ever seen before and he quickly grew frustrated. So he lounged on the bed with the lap top, web surfing -- and was very nearly caught when the door creaked quietly open and Don stuck his head inside. "Buddy?" He was speaking in a low, almost reverent voice and Jeff could see his arms were full of something. "I got the old Army blankets out of the linen closet; I know you always want the light blocked at the window when you have a migraine." He started across the room, asking a question but not waiting for an answer. "Want me to hang them up?"

Jeff sputtered and twisted on the bed, managing to drag a pillow over the lap top. "Yeah," he squeaked. "Right."

Don had paused and looked at him. "Maybe you should try to get more comfortable," he suggested.

"Maybe you should leave me the hell alone," Jeff spat back before he could stop himself.

Charlie must really get nasty during migraines, though, because it didn't seem to phase Don at all. He had situated the blankets over the curtain rods, left a cold bottle of water on the desk, whispered "Feel better, Charlie" and practically tip-toed out of the room.

The blanket over the window did indeed make the room dark, and Jeff actually dropped off for a while. If anyone came to check on him during that time, he provided exactly the picture they were expecting. He was awakened some time later by the distant _boom_ of fireworks followed by the appreciative noises of the group on the lawn beyond the window. He figured everyone was outside and snuck down to the bathroom. When he returned, he actually stood at the window, fingering the blanket and the blinds aside just a little so he could watch the show himself.

On Saturday morning Alan had appeared in his doorway. Jeff had assured him the migraine was gone, but he was still very tired. The research he had done indicated that this was a typical response to an episode, and it must have been right, because Alan didn't challenge the statement. After bringing him some tea and toast, he actually left him alone for the bulk of the morning.

Jeff was pacing the floor in his bare feet, trying not to alert anyone downstairs to his movements, when he heard Don's SUV pull into the driveway. Thinking he might as well put his time to good use, Jeff moved to the door and cracked it open a few inches, sitting on the floor. All he could hear for some time, after the initial slamming of doors and greetings, were gentle murmurs, and he was about to give up on his impromptu spy session when the voices seemed to grow louder and closer. They must be on the move. He tensed, ready to jump up in case they were coming up the stairs to check on him, but there were no footfalls on the steps and eventually he decided they were just moving from the kitchen to the living room.

"It _was_ nice, wasn't it?" Alan was saying. "Take some more leftovers home with you."

Don snorted. "Dad, you sent enough with me last night to last a month! Speaking of which, there was no corn in the bag."

"Take that up with Amita," admonished his father. "She never makes enough."

The sound of the television began to interfere with the conversation, and Jeff strained to pick out the live voices once again. "...nice to see them both again," he finally picked up from Alan. "They seem happy."

Don grunted in affirmation. "Yeah. I'm just sorry Charlie didn't have a better time."

Jeff could hear Alan's sigh all the way up the stairs. "I guess he just wasn't ready for all that pressure; although he _did_ seem pleased to see everyone, until the migraine took him down. How long will they be here? Maybe he'll be a little more able to visit tonight, or tomorrow."

Jeff didn't catch all of Don's reply; something about a B&B up the coast, but he clearly heard Alan's disappointment. "I was hoping they could come to dinner at least once more while they're here. I stocked up on cauliflower and bought some white corn meal!"

Jeff tilted his head, not following that logic at all, and finally shrugged as he listened to Don's reply. "...meeting them Monday after work for drinks and dinner," he was saying. "Charlie can come on down too, and together we'll blackmail them into giving one of their last two nights in town to you."

Alan chuckled and changed the subject. "Enjoying your three-day weekend?"

Don's answer came through a yawn, making it difficult to understand. "Wright would only stand us down for 48 hours," he groused. "We'll be on call starting at noon tomorrow. Technically it's a Sunday off, but it's still the 4th of July weekend, and hot...let's just say I'm not planning anything. Robin even drove down to San Diego to see her sister; she understands I'll probably be unavailable most of the day."

"That's too bad," offered Alan, "but at least you got to join us for the barbecue..." The quality of his voice changed, and became slightly challenging. "Is Robin gone already?" Don must have nodded his head in affirmation, because Alan soon continued. "Then I think we should turn this thing off and go out to the course. Call Colby and David, if you want, and we'll make a foursome. How often do you get to spend a Saturday afternoon off call?"

Don's voice was getting closer all of a sudden, and Jeff sprang up from his spot and practically catapulted himself onto the bed. "I'll just check on the kid," he still heard clearly as Don mounted the stairs and approached the door. "Go ahead and give the guys a call."

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Half an hour after he got rid of them, Jeff put his hastily-devised plan into motion.

First, he phoned Amita and chatted her up for five minutes. When she hinted at coming over to the house that evening, he informed her that he and Don were planning a rare evening of brother bonding. Since they had both missed the rented DVDs the day before, they were going to watch them at Don's apartment and order in a pizza; have some beer; be normal. Amita was so pleased by Charlie's apparent recovery -- both from the migraine, and from Danielson -- that she didn't even try to talk him out of it.

Then, Jeff showered quickly, then moved to pillage the kitchen until he had a grocery sack full of leftover potato salad, fried chicken, watermelon -- and tequila, which he was surprised but happy to find in an upper cabinet. While looking through drawers for a pen and a scrap of paper, he spied the morning newspaper on the counter, so he added that to his take. Finally he darted up the stairs to Charlie's room and tore a piece of paper out of a notebook lying on the desk. He was about to scribble a note when it occurred to him that the handwriting would be all wrong. That revelation created a temporary dilemma. He hadn't really wanted them to know what he was supposedly doing so soon – they might try to call Amita and verify his story -- but he figured it was less of a risk than a note no-one recognized would be, so he finally picked up Charlie's cell and called Alan. "I'm feeling much better," he started. "I think I'll go to Amita's for a few hours. I thought I could take some leftovers and we could have our picnic today." To say that Alan was okay with that idea would be a tremendous understatement. Jeff had already been around long enough to know that Charlie's father, for some reason, desperately wanted the two of them together, so he was fairly certain that there would be no interrupting phone calls. Still, he pocketed the cell, just in case, and headed back down the stairs.

He was already more relaxed, just knowing he had a few hours to himself. Amita thought he was with Don, and the Eppes believed he was with Amita. For the next several hours, he would not have to pretend to be someone he hated. He could take the food, the paper and the booze to the East L.A. apartment, and wallow in front of the fan for a while. He would eat like a pig, drink like a fish, and relax.

He'd had a difficult few days, after all.

He deserved to a break today.

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Even with the window open, the apartment was stuffy; hot. The box fan didn't do much to remedy the situation, and finally Jeff positioned it right in front of the futon and stripped down to his boxers. Sweat still glistened on his skin, but it was more than a fair trade for the time away from Casa Eppes.

He was grateful he had been able to stop Charlie two weeks ago, when he had discovered the apartment; before he had time to connect with Don. This way, Jeff still had someplace to escape. Before he left today, though, he would have to stop and tell the super he was letting the apartment go. He would suffer through one more day with Alan, leave early Monday for Sacramento to file his name change petition, and hopefully would be able to check out some remote properties during the drive. When he returned, he would get serious about picking them off, one-by-one. He could taste his freedom now, smell it; and it was rich and heady, more inebriating than the tequila.

Jeff snuggled his butt into the corner of the futon and polished off the potato salad while he read the front page of the paper. He gnawed on a chicken leg, swigged tequila straight from the bottle, and had moved on to the sports section by the time he was spearing watermelon cubes out of a snack container. He had not allowed himself to eat very much the day before, concerned with presenting a believable migraine, and now he was very hungry. He had just started a second chicken leg and the real estate section when the combination of heat, food, booze and relaxation took him down.

At five o'clock on July 5th, Jeff Danielson fell asleep.

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Charlie jerked awake on the futon, his heart pounding, when someone laid on their vehicle's horn directly under the aparment's window. He shivered slightly as he sat up and looked around a trifle woozily. His head was fuzzy, and he wasn't sure where he was for a moment. He could hear people shouting on the street, and music pounding from the apartment next door, and it suddenly came rushing back to him.

East L.A.

He had an apartment in East L.A., and he had no clue why. He didn't remember ever seeing it before he had tracked it down from that slip of paper he'd found in the Prius – the one with the address. His heart began pounding uncomfortably again as he remembered the super's sour greeting, his reminder that the rent on 6B was due soon. The man obviously recognized him; a fact that was not mutual. Charlie had trudged up the stairs to the sixth floor, found a key to this apartment on his keyring, and sat down on the futon, scared, to call Don.

He could remember that much. Less understandable was the greasy chicken drumstick he had been clutching when he awoke, and his state of semi-nudity. His clothes – not clothes he remembered putting on – were lying abandoned on the floor, near the box fan. Charlie staggered to his feet, and an empty tequila bottle rolled off the futon onto the floor. He jerked back as if were a live thing. Where did that come from, and was it why his head was full of cotton?

He wiggled into his jeans and pulled his t-shirt over his head, trying to remember if he had talked to Don. If he had, why was he still here? Had he fallen asleep waiting for his brother? He leaned over and picked up some newspaper from the floor, intending to toss it onto the futon, when his eye focused on the dateline in the upper right corner.

Saturday, July 5, 2008.

Mother of God, he'd lost more than two weeks this time.

Frantically, he felt around in the pockets of his jeans until he located the cell phone in the front left. Quickly he pulled it out and flipped it open. His heart rose into his throat and nearly choked him. There was only one bar left, which was bad enough news, but the date on the phone was Sunday, July 6, and it was nearly 6 a.m. The paper was a day old, apparently. Charlie was stunned, speechless and inactive, temporarily incapable of remembering why he had pulled out the phone in the first place. By the time it came back to him – _call Don_ – the last bar had disappeared, along with the mocking date. The phone's display was blank; the battery dead.

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Don rolled over and groaned, squinting at the alarm clock on the nightstand next to the bed.

It wasn't even 7 in the morning, yet! Who the hell was pounding on his door at this hour on a Sunday? He didn't go on call until noon, so he was fairly certain it was not work-related. Neither had he indulged in massive amounts of alcohol last night. He'd had a couple of beers at Charlie's house when he and Alan had returned from golfing, during the movies they'd watched on the DVD player with Colby and David – but no way had he consumed enough to make the pounding an internal thing; post-drunken jackhammers in the head. No, it was definitely someone at the front door of his apartment, and it was someone who wanted in very badly.

He swore, and started fighting with the sheet. If Alan was out there, bright and chipper and ready to take him to breakfast, he would kill him. Don was not a morning person. He was more than willing to let Charlie be an only child before 10 a.m. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he lowered his head into his hands at the thought of his brother's name. _Charlie._ Shit. He and Alan had both been disgustingly happy when Chuck didn't come home last night – at least not before Don left around 11. They hoped it meant things were going well with Amita. But if he was the one pounding on Don's door at 7 on a Sunday morning, it probably meant that things had not ended well at all, and he needed some support.

Don sighed, reaching for the jeans draped over the edge of the nightstand. Well, support was one of his jobs as the big brother, he reasoned, standing to fasten the buttons. After Danielson, Don was still so happy to have a brother to support, he would willingly give up some quality pillow time. He started for the door, pausing to pluck a black t-shirt off a chair sitting next to it, and dragged it on over his head as he padded barefoot down the hallway. "Hang on," he yelled as his head popped through the neckhole. "I'm coming, I'm coming!"

He peered through the peephole in the front door, an ingrained habit, and recognized Charlie's frizzy head, although his kid brother was looking backwards over his shoulder and his face was not in view. Don grinned, and started working on deadbolts. He slid back the last one, and opened the door wide. "Always happy to see you, Buddy," he teased. "But there better be a damn good reason I'm seeing you at this hour." Charlie whirled and looked at Don with wide, terrified eyes, the horrified expression on his face immediately freezing Don's blood. "Is it Dad?" he asked quickly.

Charlie didn't answer. He just stumbled into Don like a man pushed from behind, by some invisible demon. He clutched at Don's t-shirt and gasped as if drowning. "God," he rasped, "Don, you're got to help me. I think I'm in trouble."

And then he burst into tears.

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End, Chapter 7


	8. What Did You Just Say?

**Title: ****GTB, Part II: Ramifications**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: I own my car (model year 2000); two cats (model year 1993); one battery-operated Dell computer (model year 2006); and hold Power of Attorney over my father (model year 1918). The rest belongs to someone far more blessed than I.**

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**Chapter 8: What Did You Just Say?**

Don had no idea why his brother was sobbing into his chest, clinging to him like a barnacle to a rock, and it took him a stunned moment to raise his own arms around Charlie's back. This was pretty out-of-character for any Eppes man, after all -- they were not given to displays of emotion; well, anger, maybe, but hardly ever anything like this. Hell, the last time he hugged Charlie had been in Bradford's cabin, right after he'd struggled to his feet subsequent to Charlie's shooting Danielson. Even that didn't really count, since the kid was still in shock and didn't even register that the embrace was happening. Don couldn't remember the time before that either one of them had allowed physically demonstrative affection. He was embarrassed to admit that they hadn't even leant each other that small comfort when their mother died; they were too estranged at the time. Even Alan had said that a daughter would have come in handy for the touchy-feely stuff, although Don noticed that the older the man got, the more often he snuck in touches, embraces, forms of love that did not include lasagna.

Eventually, though, the shock wore off enough so that his arms encircled his brother in a solid embrace. Some heretofore untapped instinct kicked in and he even rocked him a little in the doorway, murmuring sweet nothings in the general direction of an ear. "Hush, Charlie," he soothed. "Take it easy. I got ya. I got ya, Buddy."

At some point he wrestled the younger man inside, far enough into the vestibule that he could kick the door shut. Charlie shuddered at the sound, and raised his tear-streaked face from Don's chest to lift wounded and frightened dark eyes. "What was that?" he whispered, hiccupping at the end.

A whiff of something decidedly alcoholic wafted in Don's direction and he wrinkled his nose as he helped Charlie steady onto his feet and stand on his own. "Have you been drinking, Chuck?" He inhaled another noseful of the scent. "What is that, _Jose_?"

Charlie sniffed and raised his bare forearm, dragging it across his nose. "I don't know," he admitted, tearing up again.

Don took a half-step back, intending to go to the kitchen and start a pot of coffee, but Charlie's increased respirations and look of terror stopped him. "Which?" he asked gently. "You don't know if you've been drinking, or you don't know if it was _Jose_?"

Fresh tears squeezed out of Charlie's eyes and he dragged his arm across his face again. "Neither," he whispered.

Well. Don rocked on his bare feet where he stood. Couldn't say he really expected that answer. His eyes fell on the snot that glistened on Charlie's forearm, and it suddenly occurred to him that at least an equal amount of snot was soaking into his own chest. Yeech. "Listen," he suggested. "Why don't you go take a shower – you smell like you could use one. I'll change my shirt and have some coffee ready by the time you get out. Then we can talk."

Charlie's impossibly-wide eyes widened even further, and he glanced quickly behind him, toward the hall that led to the bathroom and bedrooms. He was shaking his head when he turned it again to face Don. "I can't," he said desperately. "Please. Don't make me go in there alone. Please."

Okay. So _that_ was a new one; Charlie was afraid of the bathroom, now? "You'll feel better if you clean up a little," Don argued. "I'll get you a pair of sweats and an old t-shirt to change into." He tried to read the look in Charlie's eyes. It was both longing and frightened. He could understand the longing – Charlie was sweaty and stinky and covered in snot; he really could use a shower – it was the fear Don was having a difficult time getting his head around. "You can leave the door open," he finally offered.

Charlie dropped his eyes to the floor, miserable, and shifted in a way that reminded Don of a three-year-old who had to go to the bathroom. "I think you have to watch me," he whispered to the hardwood.

Whoa. That was _so_ not happening. "You're kidding," Don said, unable to think of a better response on short notice. "You're kidding," he repeated.

Charlie didn't look up, and he shifted again, a little more urgently this time. "I don't know where I go," he sniffed.

Don misunderstood. How drunk _was_ Charlie? "Down the hall," he directed. "First door on the right." Charlie didn't respond to that, just kept shifting and sniffing, and finally Don sighed and bumped up the authority a notch. "_Now_, Charlie," he ordered. "I will **not** allow you to pee all over my laminate flooring." Charlie looked up then, his eyes full of pain and a hopeless despair that nearly took Don's breath away. "You can leave the door open," he offered again, more gently. "I'll be right outside. I won't let anything happen." Don wasn't even sure what he was supposed to prevent; he just knew his brother needed his protection, and that _he_ needed for Charlie to know that he had it.

Charlie's expression relaxed just a little, and after a few more seconds, he nodded his head. "Thank-you," he whispered, turning at last toward the bathroom. Don stood in the vestibule and wondered what the hell had Charlie so spooked. Even if he had a horrible first night with Amita, he could hardly be expecting her to burst into the apartment, hunt him down in the bathroom and kill him on the grounds of failure to perform. Yet he was definitely acting like someone who was afraid of someone else. He wandered into the kitchen and started the coffee brewing, setting the coffee maker to 'strong', and then cautiously started for his bedroom. He had promised to be right outside, but he didn't really want to catch Charlie in the act, so to speak. As he drew closer to the open bathroom door, he was able to determine that the sound of water was the shower, and not a stream of urine, and he relaxed a little, even glancing into the bathroom as he passed. He could see Charlie's silhouette behind the frosted glass of the shower stall. Not at all sure how long his brother would stay there, he quickened his pace and continued to the bedroom. He dragged his t-shirt over his head, made a face of disgust when he used the balled-up fabric to dry off his chest, and threw it in the general direction of the clothes hamper while he crossed to the chest of drawers to retrieve a clean one. While he was there, he dug out some things for Charlie to put on. Pulling on his clean polo, he sat on the end of the bed long enough to put on some socks and shoes – it would save him time, if he got called to a crime scene later. Finally he left the bedroom and started back down the hall, reaching the bathroom just as the water was turned off. He leaned in the open door and placed the clothing on the counter next to the sink. "Clothes, Charlie," he called, and hurriedly pulled out of the bathroom before his brother opened the stall door and begged him to watch, again.

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Don sat on the kitchen side of the bar counter, perched on the high stool, a half-eaten plate of scrambled eggs and toast before him, his mouth and his eyes making almost comically twin 'Os' as he regarded his brother on the other side. Charlie's plate of food was virtually untouched. "What did you just say?"

Charlie dropped his eyes nervously, and pushed the eggs around with a fork a little before he let the silverware clatter to the counter. "I said I haven't seen you in over two weeks."

Don disagreed. "You're just…befuddled, from the migraine. We were all at the 4th of July barbecue two days ago, at the house. Larry and Megan are even here from Washington."

Charlie looked up at the news. "They are?"

Don laid his own fork on the edge of his plate and leaned forward a little. "Charlie, you talked to them."

Charlie shook his head. "That's what I'm trying to tell you, Don. I don't remember that – or a lot of other things. I know I had an appointment with Dr. Bradford on the 3rd, but I don't remember if I went."

Don's brows furrowed. "You must have. He didn't mention anything at the barbecue."

"The cut," Charlie countered, turning his arm slightly so that the scar was clearly visible on his forearm. "I made that story up, about the metal in the trash bin, because I don't know how it happened. I just…woke up…and I was in the ER, a bloody towel wrapped around my arm, and you were staring at me."

Don stared at him again. "You were probably in shock," he suggested. "Trauma, blood loss…"

Charlie sighed, and raised his hand to push damp curls out of his face. "I've woken up in a lot of weird places," he confessed. "Once I was sleeping on a park bench in the middle of the night; turned out I was in Riverside. I was wearing clothes that weren't mine; like I was the time I woke up on a bus to Barstow. Had to hitchhike all night to get back, after that one."

Don leaned back, stunned. "Barstow?"

Charlie went on, oblivious to the whisper. "I find things; like cigarettes in my pocket, empty bottles of booze…" he snorted, suddenly, "…even a half-eaten chicken leg. My…my head always feels funny when I wake up, but I don't know if that's because I've been drinking, or if I've been doing something else I should be worried about, or if it's because I usually don't know where I am or how long I've been there. And…Amita's birthday dinner. I don't know why I didn't show up at the restaurant. I don't know where I was; but I'm pretty sure I wasn't on campus lost in Cognitive Emergence."

Don swallowed. "How long has this been going on?"

Charlie actually smiled, and tilted his head. "You're asking me?" A look of chagrined shock crossed Don's features, and Charlie suddenly had a thought. "I rent an apartment, in East L.A. That's where I woke up this morning. I found out about it over two weeks ago, when I started getting suspicious. I seem to be stealing my own money, too…. Anyway, I found this address in the Prius, and when I went to the tenement building, the super knew me. Maybe he could tell us when I started renting there."

Don didn't know what to think or say, so naturally he focused on the wrong thing. "Why the hell didn't you tell me?" he accused angrily.

Charlie reddened a little, and the hurt look crept back into his eyes. "I tried," he answered quietly. "I was trying to figure it out on my own, but as soon as I found out about the apartment I got scared. There was a futon…I sat down on it, to call you. I took out my cell phone, and that's the last thing I remember before this morning."

Don leaned forward again, absently pushing his plate out of the way, and counted backwards, staring at the counter. At length he looked at Charlie again. "I talked to you," he said. "We went to lunch. You were happy, and relaxed, it was a great lunch." An odd look entered his expression, one Charlie could not interpret right away. "In fact, you've been pretty happy and relaxed for the last couple of weeks. Dad and I were glad to see you so into the barbecue…" – another odd expression – "until you got a migraine in the middle of it and disappeared into your room for a couple of days."

Charlie closed his eyes, shook his head, and opened them again. "No," he said. "That can't be right. Like I said, my head is always fuzzy when I wake up from these…blackouts…but there's no way I had a migraine two days ago. I know how I feel for days after one of those, and I don't feel that way…plus…plus…I didn't notice anything on my hip, when I was in the shower. If I injected Imitrex® two days ago, there would still be a mark."

Don started to reach for the cell phone on the end of the bar. "I'm calling Bradford," he announced. "You're blacking out, and weird shit you can't remember is happening. I'm calling Bradford."

Charlie started to agree – it sounded like a good idea to him – but then he frowned. "Wait. When we saw him together, right after I cut my arm; didn't he say he was leaving on vacation right after the barbecue?"

Don swore. Then he started scrolling through his contact list. "I've got his cell, I think. He can refer us to someone on an emergency basis."

The thought of baring it all to a stranger, from the kidnapping to the shooting to his recent blackouts, turned Charlie's stomach. He paled and pushed away his own eggs. "What about Megan?" he suggested as a lame compromise. She was no therapist, but she did have some psychological training, as well as knowledge of Charlie already; he would much rather talk to her than someone he didn't know.

But Don was shaking his head. "She and Larry went to a B&B up the coast for a few days; they won't be back until tomorrow afternoon. You need to see someone now." He located Bradford's cell phone number. "Aha!" he crowed in triumph. "I've got it!"

Charlie knew that he needed help; he just couldn't face a professionally aloof stranger, right now. "Wait," he begged again, reaching out to place a hand on Don's arm. When Don raised his eyes from the cell, Charlie continued. "I'm not arguing; I know I need to see someone. But you said Megan will be back tomorrow, and if I go to a stranger, the first thing he will do is order a complete physical work-up." He was growing more upset as the probabilities entered his tortured mind, and both his voice and his hand on Don's arm began to shake. "He might even slap me in the hospital tonight, since it's Sunday and he can't send me to my doctor. God, Don, I can't go in on a psych hold! They'll lock me in a room, and I'll be alone! They'll give me something to make me sleep, and I have to stay awake!" He had started to weep, again. "When I sleep, I never know when I'll wake up…please, Donny, please…"

Don reached to cover Charlie's hand with his own. "You're scaring me," he admitted plainly. "This is beyond me. Beyond Megan."

Charlie hit him with the patented wounded puppy stare, liquid brown eyes brimming with pain and fear. "Just for today. Please. Just watch me today. Don't let me sleep, and tomorrow I'll call my PCP and ask for an emergency appointment. I'll let him do a full work-up, and I'll talk to Megan when she gets back, and then we can all call Bradford and tell him what we know. He can make the call about referring me to someone else or having me wait until he gets back. Please. I'm begging, Don. I'm begging."

_Shit._ Charlie always could wrap him around his little finger – especially when he resorted to that damn _look_. Don sighed, letting go of Charlie's hand and slumping back on the stool so hard he almost shot off the other side. "I've got to call Dad and tell him where you are," he warned.

Charlie let go of his arm and slumped on his own stool. "Of course. Just don't…I don't want him to worry. We can talk to him tomorrow, after we have a better idea what to tell him."

Don frowned. "Ordinarily I'd agree, Charlie, but we may need him here. I'm on call starting at noon; I may have to leave."

Charlie literally backed off the stool and stood behind it, wobbly on his feet, wrapping his arms around his chest. "You can't," he pleaded, clearly terrified. "You have to watch me. You have to watch me."

Don stepped off his own stool and carried his plate to the sink, thinking. What should he do? He could have his Dad come over, but Charlie was right – Alan would worry, maybe so much his concern would inadvertently push his brother over the edge again. Yet he was sure there would be calls today. He and David were slated to take the first one; Colby and Irvine would take the next. He moved back to the counter and frowned at Charlie's full plate, the eggs now no doubt cold and completely unappetizing. He left the saucer of toast and picked up the plate. "I'll call dispatch," he finally said, carrying the plate to the sink. He stooped to scrape the eggs into the trash, then straightened and set the empty china in the sink, on top of the other plate. "I'll tell them I'm sick and can't take calls today. I'll ask them to send out the other three together; if there are too many calls, dispatch will start calling out other teams." He hated to do it, but in the end it wasn't really a contest. Charlie needed him, and Charlie was the priority right now.

"Thank-you," his brother breathed, inhaling a deep breath at the end. "Thank-you."

Don smiled at him, and shrugged. "That's what I'm here for," he stated matter-of-factly, hoping that Charlie believed him. He turned his head to eye the nearly-empty coffee carafe. "Guess I'd better make more," he mused before looking back at Charlie. "Why don't you go pick out a movie? Something action-packed that won't put us to sleep. Maybe that last _Bourne_ one…"

Charlie let his eyes stray toward the living room, and then he looked helplessly back at Don, who eventually figured out Charlie didn't want to go into the living room alone. He was serious about Don literally watching him all day. At that moment, he finally understood just how frightened his brother was, and his heart lurched in his chest. "On second thought," he said, stopping to clear his throat, "why don't you come in here and make the coffee yourself? I'm going to see if I have all the ingredients for Mom's Cowboy Cookies. If we have to, we can run to the store before I call dispatch."

Charlie tried for a smile, failing miserably. "Okay," he agreed, starting his journey for the coffee maker on the far counter. "Can I get some ice cream at the store?"

Don laughed as he opened cupboards and took inventory. "No," he answered. "Ice cream always puts you to sleep."

Charlie shuddered, his back to Don. "Right. Maybe I'll get some Red Bull®."

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End, Chapter 8


	9. You Can't See the Forest for the Trees

**Title: ****GTB, Part II: Ramifications**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: In the grand scheme of things, does it really matter so much who owns what, and for how long? For when we pass, we pass with empty hands; it is no longer of any import how tightly we held on to the things of this world. In the meantime, perpetuate the idiom – "the rich get richer" -- and direct any and all payment for these fine characters to Heuton, Falacci et al, their creators and rightful owners.**

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**Chapter 9: You Can't See the Forest for the Trees**

Don and Charlie had not made cookies together in…well, ever, when Don stopped to think about it. When he was growing up, he often came home from school or baseball practice to find a plate of cookies waiting for him. They were usually lopsided and misshapen, and the result of one of his mother's afternoons off; she would take Charlie to one of his tutors, and then they would come home and make cookies. Less often, Don had made them with her himself. She would distract him on a rainy Saturday, when a game was cancelled, or when he had his tonsils out and was stuck at home for most of a week. At those times, it was his turn to help, and a plate of chocolate chip or oatmeal-raisin would be waiting for Charlie when he trudged home after his lessons.

Don's favorite had always been his mother's 'Cowboy Cookies', full of M&Ms and peanuts and coconut and any number of other things. He had learned how to make those himself, because he genuinely enjoyed them, and they always reminded him of home, and his mother; and, because, as he learned in college, chicks really got off on a man who made cookies. Just a few weeks ago, in fact, he had surprised Robin at her office with a batch of homemade cookies. The gesture had led to some of the hottest sex it had ever been his pleasure to enjoy; which actually had made him feel a little guilty. He was fairly certain Margaret Eppes did not share her cookie recipe with her oldest son hoping to get him laid.

So the idea to spend the morning making cookies with Charlie was probably some kind of sub-conscious penance. The mind was an odd creature that way. At any rate, it turned out to be a fairly inspired idea. Don and Charlie were able to share some fond memories of their mother – something they had done far too little. His tightly-wound brother even began to relax a little.

Charlie sprang back to full alert just after noon when Don's cell rang. Don picked it up from the counter in the kitchen, where they were both waiting for the last batch of cookies to come out of the oven, and read the caller ID. "It's Colby," he shared. "They probably got a call already and dispatch told him I called in sick; he's checking up on me." Charlie tugged at a strand of hair and looked at him worriedly but didn't say anything. Don shrugged, preparing to answer. "If I don't take the call, he and David -- and maybe even Tom – will come barging in here to make sure I'm not dying. I don't call in sick a lot, Chuck." Charlie remained silent, although his eyes got a little wider.

Don grinned at him and flipped the phone open. "Eppes." He wandered into the vestibule as he listened for a while. "Yeah, Granger, I'm okay. Sorry about messing up the on-call for everybody…must've been something I ate." He wandered some more, stopping to straighten the photograph of his graduating class at Quantico, hanging on the wall between the vestibule and the bathroom, just over the small telephone table where he stowed his weapons each night. "No!" he suddenly barked into the phone, and Charlie stiffened in the kitchen, watching him. "I mean, I appreciate the thought, really," Don went on, "but I'm good, here. Charlie actually dropped by this morning and he's been taking really good care of me." He turned, and started back toward the kitchen. "I will," he said into the cell. "Thanks for checking up on me, Cole." He flipped the cell shut hurriedly and waved a hand at Charlie. "Dude! There's smoke coming out of the oven!"

Charlie swore and whirled around, yanking open the oven door. Smoke billowed out, and the alarm in the kitchen began to sound. Don grabbed a towel from the counter and began to wave it under the alarm, trying to dissipate the smoke, but he clearly heard Charlie swear again, followed by a loud clatter on the top of the stove and the sound of someone kicking the oven door shut. The alarm finally ceased, and Don turned a little to take in his brother, who was standing over the stove with his finger in his mouth. He dropped the towel on the counter and turned more fully to steer Charlie toward the sink. "Forgot the potholder, didn't you?" he asked. He reached for Charlie's hand. "Let me see."

To his surprise, Charlie jerked back from him, his eyes narrowing and his free hand reaching to the counter nearest him, to grab a knife from the wooden butcher block that stood there, waving it vaguely at Don as if to hold him at bay. "That stupid son of a bitch," the youngest Eppes growled, taking his other hand out of his mouth and looking at it. "He burned me!"

Nonplussed, Don stood in silence for a moment, eyes transfixed by the shiny blade of the knife. "Charlie?" he finally ventured, moving his gaze to his brother's face. Charlie grimaced and shook his head twice, as if to dislodge something stuck in his hair. He squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head to his chest. His entire body undulated in a massive shudder; an indiscriminate grunt escaped his mouth. The sum effect of it all was a little frightening, and Don took a half-step closer. "Charlie?" he repeated.

The curly head slowly rose, and familiar, if somewhat glassy, brown eyes locked with his in confusion. "Donny?"

Don smiled a little in relief. "Yeah. You okay, Buddy?"

Charlie lifted his burned finger into his line of sight. "There's a blister," he observed in wonderment.

Don nodded. "Right. You burned your finger on the cookie tin. Why don't you put the knife down and come to the sink? We can run some cold water over it."

Charlie looked at him as if he were crazy. "Knife?" He followed Don's eyes to his other hand, and saw that he was clutching a butcher knife with a five-inch blade. He made a noise of distress and let it clatter to the counter. "What the hell?" He looked back at Don, clearly terrified. "What the hell? You were supposed to watch! What…what day is it?"

Don held up a hand and tried to soothe him. "Calm down, calm down. It's still Sunday. You've been right here – I just hung up with Colby, and the cookies were burning…do you remember any of that?"

Charlie almost felt relief. He did remember the phone call, the burning cookies; and Don was saying that it all had just happened. He hadn't lost any time. He glanced sideways at the counter, not quite ready to believe. "Why did I have a knife?"

Don hesitated. He wasn't real sure of that himself. "Maybe you were going to scrape the burned cookies off the sheet?"

Charlie considered. There was some sensibility there; he just didn't remember making that decision. "Is that all I don't remember?" he asked.

Don's shoulders slumped, and Charlie shivered, waiting to hear something terrible. "You said some weird shit, in the second person," Don finally admitted. "I think I scared you, yelling about the cookies and trying to force you over to the sink. It was my fault," he concluded, not sure exactly who he was trying to convince. Charlie looked at him warily, and Don hurried on. "Seriously, it was just a few seconds, Charlie." Against his own better judgment he tried to make a joke. "Look, you're even wearing the same clothes. Mine."

Charlie looked down and saw that Don was right. Don had been here the whole time, and he was saying that everything made sense. Everything made sense. Charlie sighed and looked back at his brother. "You've been watching?"

"Didn't take my eyes off you," promised Don. His gaze shifted to Charlie's hand, now hanging limply at his side. "Can we run some water over that finger now?"

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Despite three Red Bulls and the Harrison Ford retrospective Don had found on one of the pay channels, Charlie fell asleep on the couch. Sometime between the third _Star Wars _movie and the first _Indiana Jones_, Don glanced at him from his own end of the couch and saw that he was down for the count. He knew that he should wake him; Charlie was adamant that he not be allowed to sleep – but he just didn't have the heart. The kid was clearly exhausted; visibly upset by the cookie incident, and he looked so damn _peaceful_ with his head tilted back on the couch, his mouth slightly open. Don let him sleep all the way through the first Indiana Jones. He even called for pizza about half-an-hour before it ended, and Charlie didn't wake up until the delivery guy started banging on the door.

He bolted upright on the couch, breathing heavily. "Oh, my God."

Don couldn't help smiling as he rose from the other end of the couch and started for the door. "Take it easy, Charlie. It's just the pizza guy." He climbed over his brother's feet and went to the door, trading his hard-earned cash for a Supreme, tipping the driver handsomely. When he proudly carried his prize back into the living room, he was startled to find Charlie standing in front of the television crying. He dropped the box on the coffee table. "What?"

Charlie pointed at the screen. "Where's C3PO?" he all-but begged. "Th-this is the wrong movie. I lost time. I lost time."

Don approached him cautiously, remembering the knife incident in the kitchen. "No, no, Charlie, it's all right. It's okay, you fell asleep. This is the end of the first _Indiana Jones_ movie."

To his dismay, Charlie's face crumbled further and he began to cry harder. "You let me sleep?"

Don moved until he was directly in front of his brother. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry – I won't do it again. I was watching, the entire time. It's been about two hours." He could see that Charlie was not convinced. "What's the last thing you remember?" he asked.

Charlie sniffed, and dragged his arm across his face. "Th-the big meeting, when Han Solo volunteers to take the Fal, Falcon Millenium into the Death Star."

Don grinned. "Sounds about right to me. The only part you can't remember is what you slept through." Charlie sniffed again and Don put a hand on his shoulder. "Come back to the couch; I've got pizza. So far, this is a pretty righteous sick day for me. Cookies, movies, pizza delivery…"

Charlie smiled somewhat tremulously. "Jerk," he whispered.

Don raised an eyebrow. "Last one to the couch gets the last Red Bull®."

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The pizza and most of the cookies were gone by 2, and the Harrison Ford movies had more than worn out their welcome by 5. The brothers turned off the television and Don spent a miserable hour letting Charlie try to teach him the finer points of chess. It had been news to him that he even had a chess set in the apartment, but Charlie had looked a little hurt and insisted he had given him one for his birthday a couple of years before. Lo and behold, Don found it in the hall closet, under a backgammon set and on top of a dusty Pictionary® game still wrapped in cellophane. Standing behind him, Charlie had advanced to full sulk mode. "I gave you that at least five years ago," he muttered. "Right after you moved back to L.A."

Don kicked the closet door shut and shoved the chess set at his brother. "Forgive me if I don't like to play board games against myself," he answered sarcastically. "Living alone here, Charlie."

His brother was barely mollified. "Maybe you'd have a longer-term relationship with a woman if you did something with her besides having sex," he pointed out.

Don bristled. _That_ hurt his feelings a little, but he tried to push it down. "If I was looking for relationship advice, Chuckles, I probably wouldn't go to you."

Charlie reddened and dropped the boxed chess set heavily on the coffee table, lowering himself to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the table. "Susan and I played board games when we lived together," he pouted.

"I'm noting a past tense here", said Don, lowering himself on creaking knees to sit on the opposite side of the table. "You and Amita also play chess, but I haven't noticed that relationship working out much better."

He winced as his own words floated through the air and slapped his brother across the face. _Shit._ He really was an idiot, sometimes. "Sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean that. I'm sorry."

Charlie's hand shook almost imperceptibly as he carefully schooled his face and continued to set up the board. "Not at all," he answered formally. "It's an accurate observation."

"Might be accurate," countered Don, "but it wasn't fair."

Charlie finally looked up from the board and smiled sadly at Don across the coffee table. "Nothing about life is fair," he observed almost dreamily. "People die. They leave. They hurt each other." He looked away, then, letting his gaze fall back to the chess board. "None of this shit is fair."

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Charlie gave up on the chess lesson around 7, and spent two hours installing several programs on Don's computer and running a systems check. He threatened to teach Don Quicken® as soon as the computer rebooted, so he could balance his own books, but backed off when Don pointed out that he'd already reached his instruction quota for the day and his internal hard drive was in danger of an overload. At 9 Don turned the television back on; Alec Baldwin had come up to bat, and was performing as Jack Ryan, hunting for Red October. Don was sipping a beer, but Charlie was sticking to drinks high in caffeine, determined to stay awake. Still, he started yawning around the submarine's first _ping_, and by the time Sam Neill was accidentally shot by the KGB saboteur 'cook', was snoring. Don sipped his beer, alternately watching Charlie and watching Baldwin and Connery complete a series of evasive maneuvers. As soon as the movie was over, he thought, yawning himself, he would wake his brother. He had promised, and it was important to Charlie. Still, nothing had happened during or because of Charlie's nap that afternoon; nothing weird had gone down since the cookie incident. Don would let Charlie sleep just a few minutes this time, he decided, until the end of the movie.

About the time Jack Ryan flew home, carrying a teddy bear he had promised his daughter, Don was fast asleep on his own end of the couch.

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"The Hunt for Red October" was replaying when Jeff awoke at 3 a.m.

He blinked at the ceiling in the darkened room, using the light from the television to figure out exactly where he was. He sneered in anger as he remembered the close call in the kitchen. He had almost gotten out. He had gripped the knife in his hand. Somehow, Charlie had regained control and pushed him back under, had kept him there all day.

He turned his head slightly on the couch, aware of the steady breathing that indicated another person was sleeping nearby. His sneer turned into a smile as he observed the Big, Bad Federal Agent – dead to the world, slumped in the corner of the couch like a spineless crustacean. For perhaps the first time, Jeff truly appreciated the small, compact body of Charles Eppes, as he sat forward gingerly on the couch, perching on the edge for a moment. The brother stirred a little, but sighed and settled further into slumber. Silently, delicately, subtly, Jeff rose from the couch and padded unobtrusively away.

He was quiet – so quiet – as he reached the kitchen, veering past to a small telephone table just pass the door on the edge of the vestibule. There was no telephone; apparently Don only had his cell – and in its place on top of the ornately carved table rested a set of keys and a phone book. The proper place for that book was in the single drawer just under the table top, Jeff knew. Excited, he wondered if he would hit the jackpot in the first place he looked. Perhaps the agent was as predictable in his own home as anyone else would be.

Slowly, carefully, he slid open the drawer. He nearly danced in delight at the sight before him. Not only was the agent's service weapon there, it its holster; so were his shiny handcuffs and his back-up piece, a small .38 in an ankle holster. Jeff extracted them all as silently as he could, leaving the tiny handcuff key in the drawer, which he only partially closed, and continued down the hall to the bathroom. Once there, he placed the .38 in one of the front pockets of the baggy sweats after he had done his business, and shoved the handcuffs in the other. Then he removed the Glock from its holster and hefted its solid weight in his hand, caressing the smooth, cold steel.

On the way back to the living room, he stopped at the refrigerator for his own beer. He twisted off the cap quietly and padded back into the living room. He stood over the coffee table long enough to set down his beer, and take the handcuffs from his pocket, placing them carefully on the end of the table closest to Don, on top of some papers. Then he cautiously picked up the remote to the television long enough to lower the sound -- it was giving him a headache. Finally, he retrieved his beer and lowered himself into the easy chair that faced the couch.

He drank, and rubbed the cold steel against his face, and waited for Don to wake up.

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End, Chapter 9


	10. Battle of Wits

**Title: ****GTB, Part II: Ramifications**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Although I run from the occasional Intervention, I really have no claim to these people.  
**

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**Chapter 10: Battle of Wits  
**

Jeff Danielson was an intelligent man, capable of thinking on his feet; or in this case, on his butt in an overstuffed easy chair.

As he watched Don sleep, he considered his options. It was true that he wanted them all dead; the brother, the father, the slut -- but it was also a fact that he could live without taking out Alan, and Amita. Mostly, he needed for Don to pay his debt to the Danielson brothers. Of course, Charlie would pay his as well. While his body would not be dead, Jeff would use it to kill his brother, and to live free and wild for many years to come on a grubsteak thoughtfully provided by Charlie and Alan Eppes. At least the father and the girlfriend would suffer. One Eppes brother would be dead, and they would never know what had become of the other. For years -- for the rest of their lives -- they would suffer.

The money was in the car. He could make another trip to East L.A., where he was certain he could buy some ID on the street. After he killed the agent with his own service weapon, he would take it with him, and either trade it as partial payment for the ID or sell it himself in some back alley. The .38 he would keep -- he might need a firearm up in the woods, after all. The Prius he would abandon in East L.A., and take a bus out of town; a chop shop would have the car stripped in half an hour. He smiled, thinking of his favorite part of that plan. Before he abandoned the vehicle he would cut Charlie again, and sprinkle his blood around the automobile. By the time police found and processed what was left, eventually discovering a missing person's DNA, the brother's body would already be buried. He almost giggled aloud when it occurred to him that they might actually dig him up again, looking for some clue missed during the first autopsy, when they decided someone had come after both brothers. Months, perhaps years, would be wasted going through all the cases the brothers had ever worked together, trying to track down the one perp who hated them badly enough to take them both out. Best, no Danielsons would be on that list of potentials, since they were supposedly already dead.

Mark would be proud of him.

Yes...this would be his final answer. Eppes must suffer first, of course. He must be made to understand what was happening to his brother. Jeff had to make sure they had some uninterrupted time together for that. He would allow the agent his morning visit to the bathroom, and he would be waiting outside when the door opened again. The refrigerator, an older model, had a nice handle for handcuffs; perhaps they could work something out there.

First, Jeff needed to insure their morning, so he quietly leaned over to retrieve the handcuffs and pushed himself out of the chair. He carried the Glock with him as he crossed the few feet to the bar and picked up Don's cell phone. He moved to the rear of the kitchen, and scrolled through the contact list until he located Agent Granger's name. He depressed the 'send' button and waited for the man to answer. He began whispering as soon as the agent picked up. "Colby, it's Charlie. I apologize for waking you up so early, but I wasn't sure who else I could call." He waited until he was fairly certain Granger was fully awake and knew who was talking before he continued. "Don was up and down all night; he was pretty sick. I think the worst is over -- he's finally sleeping -- but I'd feel better if he took another day." He smiled as the agent promised to contact the proper people, but nearly panicked when he offered to call Alan. "No!" he said loudly, wincing and dropping to a whisper again. "I mean thanks, but I'll handle that later. Gonna try to catch a few hours of sleep myself, first." He rolled his eyes as he continued to deny various offers, and eventually managed to end the call. When he did, he turned the phone off and laid both the cell and the handcuffs on the counter near the stove, in the dark shadows of the kitchen, before he returned to the living room.

He had just settled in the chair again, pushing the gun down between his hip and the upholstery, when Eppes stirred, stretching his hands over his head and turning his head lazily on the couch until he saw Jeff sitting in the chair. "Sorry," he grinned. "Must've fallen asleep." He yawned hugely. "You okay, Buddy?"

Jeff shifted slightly, crossing one leg over the other knee to ensure that the gun was hidden. He nodded, trying to look scared like the spineless little professor would. "Yeah," he whispered, sadly.

Don smiled kindly and sat up on the edge of the couch. "Let me at the head," he proposed, "and then we'll make some breakfast. I should call the duty officer, too, tell him I won't be in today."

Jeff let Charlie play nervously with his curls. "I talked to Colby," he offered. "He called a little while ago, and I told him you were still sick; he said he'd take care of everything." He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. "Was that okay?"

Don raised an eyebrow, and looked toward the living room window. He could tell by the level of light creeping in around the blinds that it was no later than 5 or 6 a.m. If Colby already called, he must have been out on another call. Don was so going to owe them for this. He looked back at Charlie and saw how terrified his brother looked, and hastened to reassure him. "Yeah," he said, pushing himself off the couch, "that's good. You did good." He smiled again. "I'll be right out," he added gently. Jeff nodded, and let him go. He would count to 60 -- one minute -- and then he and the Glock would follow.

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As Don padded past the telephone table at the edge of the vestibule, he noted that the drawer was slightly ajar. Odd. He veered in that direction to close it, misjudged the distance and caught his bare toe on the leg of the table. "Dammit," he cursed, hopping backwards a little while he held his injured foot in his hand. He never should have kicked his shoes off the night before.

Charlie was sitting up a little in the chair, his eyes wide. "What?"

Don let his foot drop back to the floor and tried to smile. "Nuthin, don't worry. I stubbed my toe on that damn table again. Maybe after breakfast you can help me find a better place to put it." Jeff just nodded, and started his count over, and Don limped out of sight again. He (carefully) kicked the telephone table on purpose as he passed. "Damn table," he muttered, reaching for the drawer. Instead of pushing the drawer closed, Don froze for a moment, and then pulled it open a little farther. Where the hell were his weapons? His handcuffs? The only thing in the drawer was the tiny silver key to the cuffs. A feeling of dread nearly overwhelmed him as he remembered that for the last several hours he had been sleeping, and a disturbed Charlie was left to wander the apartment. He shook his head, refusing to take that thought any further. Still, he automatically reached in and drew out the key, shoving it into the front pocket of his jeans before shutting the drawer. "Be right out!" he called again, hating himself for the ruse. He wasn't trying to reassure Charlie -- he was trying to cover any noise he made with the drawer. Disgusted with himself, he limped down the hall to the bathroom, flipping on the light and shutting the door behind him.

The first things he saw were the two holsters on the counter. His shoulder holster, for the Glock, and his ankle holster, for his back-up piece. They were both there, both empty. Feeling every bit the fool, he locked the door, and tried to think rationally while he took care of his morning needs. Where were the weapons? Maybe Charlie had just gotten scared, after Don fell asleep. His brother knew where Don left his equipment at night -- he had probably just heard a noise, and gone after some protection. Don buttoned his jeans and moved to wash his hands, splash some water on his face. That was a reasonable scenario -- but why would Charlie take both guns, and the handcuffs? He had a much more difficult time explaining that away. His brother could have just hidden them around the aparment for some reason; he'd been pretty flipped out since showing up yesterday. Don leaned on his arms, his hands firmly planted on either side of the sink, the water still running. It didn't matter if Charlie had the guns, he told himself. Charlie was his brother; there was no reason for Don to be afraid of him.

Charlie was his brother...and he was having blackouts, talking some weird shit, and waving butcher knives at him.

Decision made, Don still couldn't help how he felt as he lowered himself to the floor in front of the sink. He was a traitor, he told himself as he opened the cabinet below the porcelain bowl. He was a terrible brother, he knew, as he twisted his arm around the extra rolls of toilet paper. This was insulting and insane, he was sure, as he located the compact semi-automatic .22 secured to the u-joint with Velcro. It was his first back-up piece, purchased while he was still a student at Quantico. He had wanted more fire power pretty quickly once he got into the field, and during his days with Fugitive Recovery he had switched to the .38. The little .22 contained a certain sentimental value, so he had kept it. For a couple of years, while he was with Fugitive, it was in a safety deposit box -- Don didn't really live anywhere in those days, unless you counted an endless succession of dingy motel rooms. When he had moved to Albuquerque, he had started his current practice, hiding the gun in his various apartments. Once a year, he took it to the range and ran a few rounds through it, cleaning it diligently when he was finished, before he stuck it under the bathroom sink again and forgot about it until the next year.

He despised himself for what he was doing; arming himself against his own brother. He made up his mind that as soon as Charlie explained what was going on with his weapons, he would put the .22 back under the sink. In the meantime, he wouldn't offend Charlie by letting him know what Don had done. His jeans were fairly snug, and although the small gun would fit in one of his front pockets, Charlie would see it there. So as he stood back up, Don shoved the .22 behind the waistband, leaving his t-shirt untucked so that it didn't show. He couldn't even look himself in the eye in the mirror as he turned the water off.

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Jeff was standing in the hallway, holding the Glock against Charlie's temple, when Don opened the door of the bathroom. "Charlie! My God," Don yelled, lunging for his brother.

Jeff easily backed out of arm's length, toward the kitchen. "Don't call me that," he growled. "If you say that name again, I will squeeze this trigger and spatter his brain all over this fucking apartment." An evil smile played across his features as he continued to back away. "Your brother dead, by your service weapon. Good luck explaining that."

Don followed for a few feet, Charlie acting as a breadcrumb trail to his Hansel, but eventually forced himself to stop in the middle of the hall. "Don't," he pleaded, lifting a hand in supplication. "Ch...Please, don't. I'll do whatever you want. Put the gun down. Put the gun down."

Jeff laughed at him, all the way in the kitchen now. The hand that was not holding the Glock reached behind him and blindly searched the counter near the stove, lighting finally on the handcuffs. He tossed them onto the bar near the entrance to the kitchen, just a few feet away. ""You've got five seconds," he ordered. "The cuffs go through the handle of the refrigerator, and then around both wrists. One..."

Don thought of the gun poking into his stomach, but dismissed the thought right away. What was he going to do -- shoot Charlie to keep Charlie from shooting Charlie? He raised both hands in the air and practically ran for the kitchen, snatching the cuffs off the bar as he passed. It was a small kitchen, and by the time he reached the refrigerator he was close enough to tackle Charlie. Again he dismissed the thought. Just a small amount of pressure on the Glock's trigger, and it would be all over. He couldn't risk it. He quickly cuffed himself to the refrigerator door's handle, and stood sideways, leaning against the smooth, eggshell surface, eyes glued on Charlie. "I did it," he pointed out, somewhat breathlessly. "Put the gun down. Please, Ch..."

Jeff smiled, and lowered the Glock so that it was pointing at Don as he circled him and moved to the other side of the bar. Once the bar was safely between them, he perched on the stool and reached his free hand into the bowl of cookies sitting there. With maddening slowness he ate one, the Glock cradled in his lap. "These are very good," he mumbled, spraying crumbs all over the counter. He swallowed and tilted his head, narrowing his eyes as he stared at Don. "I hate you the most," he finally said. "You'll be dead before I leave, but I want you to suffer first. You deserve to suffer, just like your spineless little brother deserves to suffer."

Don pushed himself hard into interrogation mode. He wasn't sure he could do it -- look at Charlie and treat him like a stranger. "You have me at a disadvantage," he responded in an even tone. "You know who I am, but I'm afraid I don't know your name."

"Don't patronize me, you prick," answered his captor, raising the gun to point it at Charlie's head again. "I can end it all for your brother, just like he ended it for mine."

Don thought as he waved his cuffed hands in defeat. What did that mean? Whose life had Charlie ever ended? As far as he knew, only Mark Danielson's, at Bradford's cabin. Don's eyes grew wide as he connected the dots. Blackouts. Speaking as a different personality. Losing time and finding himself hours, days, even weeks later. The horror, the trauma of the last few months; the kidnapping, the torture, the intervention, the final controntation with Danielson -- it had broken him. Charlie was convinced he was someone else, the brother of the man he had killed. The logic wasn't flawless -- in reality, Danielson's brother was as dead as he was -- but on some level, Don understood that he wasn't playing in a game of logic. He had taken the required Psych 101 in college, and several additional courses at Quantico that focused on interrogative and hostage negotiation techniques. This was not something that had been covered, and his heart pounded in his chest so hard he was sure the other man could hear it. He had to do what he could, though; he had to try. Charlie was in there. He smiled. "Jeff," he guessed, watching Charlie start and realizing he had been right. "Jeff Danielson. Long time no see."


	11. Daddy Dearest

**Title: ****GTB, Part II: Ramifications**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: All of this? Not mine.**

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**Chapter 11: Daddy Dearest**

Alan channeled all his frustrations into cracking an egg on the side of the frying pan. For his trouble, he got a frying pan full of microscopic shell bits. "Damn it," he muttered, beginning his fishing expedition. Ordinarily, he wouldn't be reduced to swearing quite so early in the day, but – _was that salt, or a bit of shell?_ – ordinarily, he didn't face the hard truths of life quite so early.

Here he was, a man of a certain age – _shit, that pan's hot already_ – and he was faced with the unpleasant reality. The fact of the matter was, he and Margaret had failed. Oh, not for lack of effort; they had tried. They had done their best to raise responsible, polite, considerate sons. Yet here it was, almost 8 o'clock on Monday morning, and not a peep out of Charlie since Saturday afternoon.

It was all good and well, the reparation of his relationship with Amita – _oh, forget it; find the damn oatmeal_ – but even with visions of grandbabies dancing in his head, Alan felt a simple, thoughtful phone call wasn't too much to ask. After all, it wasn't that long ago that Charlie had been kidnapped and tortured for over a month; he should understand his father's increased level of anxiety. It wasn't as if Alan was expecting audio and video of the weekend. He just would like a little common courtesy.

He carried the frying pan and its cargo, shell and all, to the sink, letting it clatter to the bottom of the stainless steel. The sound nearly drowned out the ring of the telephone mounted on the wall between the sink and the back door, but Alan finally heard it and took a few steps, ripping off the receiver with so much force he nearly pulled the cord from the base unit.

"Hello." No more Mr. Nice Guy. If this was Charlie, he would be able to tell from those two syllables that he had crossed the line.

After a moment of silence, a decidedly feminine voice drifted over the line. "Alan? I'm sorry to call so early; did I wake you?"

And just like that, Alan's fuse fizzled out and concern took its place. "No, no, Amita. What's wrong? Did Charlie's migraine come back?"

A few more seconds of silence preceded a confused, "I was going to ask you that."

Confusion, Alan had learned years before, was often contagious. "Pardon?"

Amita stumbled a little over her answer. "I've been…phoning Charlie, the last two days, and his cell just goes to voice mail. When I talked to him on Saturday, he said he was feeling better, but I thought maybe he had a relapse?"

"You _talked_ to him on Saturday?" Alan repeated. "He didn't go to your place?"

More silence. This time, when Amita spoke, her tone was slightly suspicious. "No. He told me he was spending the evening with Don."

Well, that was extremely unlikely, since Don was with Alan most of Saturday. Not to mention the phone call during which Charlie claimed he would be with Amita. Still, those dancing grandbabies persuaded Alan to hold his tongue. "I see," he finally responded. "Perhaps I misunderstood."

Amita's suspicion didn't waver much. "So he's not at the house now?"

"I must have misunderstood," repeated Alan. "There's been so much activity around here, what with the party and all. Maybe he's spending some time with Larry and Megan."

"I suppose he could be," mused Amita, not quite ready to give up.

"I'll call Donny," suggested Alan. "He's better with details than I am these days. Federal agent, you know."

Amita didn't even attempt a laugh. "Well, when you find him, just tell him I called."

"I will," Alan assured her brightly. Sensing that this was not the time for small talk, he soon disconnected that call and punched in the numbers for Don's cell. It didn't even ring; he was sent directly to voice mail.

Sighing, he looked at the clock over the sink again. Just after 8 – Don should be at work, but probably wasn't out in the field, yet. He'd try the office. After five rings, Alan was about to hang up in exasperation – he knew from experience that it would cut to voice mail after six – when Colby's somewhat breathless voice greeted him. "This is Agent Eppes' extension," he began. "Agent Eppes is out of the office today; can someone else be of assistance?"

This time it was Alan's turn to let a second of silence pass. "Colby?" he eventually asked. "This is Alan. Alan Eppes. Don took a day off?" Colby might as well have said that Agent Eppes had woken up as a dolphin and was now employed at Sea World.

Colby's tone relaxed, switching from office-formal to casual. "Hey, Alan. Great barbecue Friday! Got any chicken left?"

In spite of his ire, Alan smiled. "Come by for lunch. How many should I expect?"

"Really?" Colby sounded as if Alan had promised him the Holy Grail. "Cool! Just me and Dave; Tom's meeting his wife downtown today."

"And Don took a day off," Alan prompted.

"Oh!" Colby lowered his voice a little. "Nah, he's taking a sick day. Couldn't work yesterday, either – he thinks it's something he ate, but it's hangin' on a little long for that. I'm bettin' the flu."

Alan made a noise of distress. "He's been sick for two days? My God, why didn't he call? I need to get right…."

Colby interrupted. "I think he's okay, Alan, really. I offered to help out, but Charlie's been with him. Don said he was taking good care of him."

Alan narrowed his eyes. His youngest, lying, missing son was with his oldest, enabling, 'never-take-a-sick-day-unless-there's-blood-involved' son? "Really," he observed, dryly.

Colby didn't seem to notice. "Talked to Charlie a couple of hours ago. He said Don was pretty sick last night, but resting, and he thought the worst was over. I offered to call you, but Charlie said he'd take care of it."

Alan's eyes narrowed even further; he practically couldn't see. "I'm sure he will." He cleared his throat, growing more incensed by the second. "What time shall I expect you and David?"

Colby almost crowed in happiness. "Noon? Is noon okay?"

Alan did a little of his own quick math in his head. 8 o'clock now. He could easily drive to Don's apartment, bang his sons' heads together, and get back by 11 to start lunch for someone who actually appreciated him. "Absolutely."

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Jeff looked with disdain at the baggy t-shirt and sweats he was wearing. "Did that loser show up in these clothes?" he asked Don. "I knew he didn't have much fashion sense, but this is really appalling."

Don thought quickly. "Nah, he changed into some of my stuff after he took a shower. He probably left his clothes in the hamper, in the bathroom."

Jeff pushed back the bar stool and stood. He waved the Glock in Don's general direction. "You wait here," he ordered. "I gotta look for something."

Don waited until Jeff/Charlie had turned into the bathroom before he worked the key, which he had palmed while he was partially hidden by the bar, picking up the handcuffs, down to his fingers. He hurried, but urged his sweaty hands to be careful, as well. He could not afford to get caught, but neither could he afford to drop the key.

Once he grasped it firmly between his thumb and second finger, it was almost obscenely easy to unlock the cuff on the wrist farthest from the bar; the one hidden in part by the refrigerator handle. He could hear Charlie rummaging in the bathroom, heard an "Aha!" of discovery, and worked rapidly. His brother was still in full Jeff mode, still carrying his Glock – and from the looks of the baggy sweats, the snub-nose .38 revolver as well. Don needed to pick the right time to make his move, or Charlie could end up killing them both. So he left the cuff loosely wrapped around his wrist, and left his wrists in position around the handle. If Jeff just settled for a glance, it would look like he was still cuffed in place; but at the first hint of opportunity, Don could move away from the refrigerator and take Danielson down.

Jeff came out of the bathroom, heading back down the hall toward the bar, and Don coughed loudly into his shoulder, dropping the key onto the floor and stepping on it with one foot. As Danielson drew nearer, Don could see a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and he stared at the sight, somewhat stupefyed. Charlie was smoking – and smoking like he had some practice.

Danielson saw the look on Don's face and laughed, tossing a soft pack of cigs and a butane lighter on the bar. He sat back down on the stool, and took the cigarette from his mouth. "By all rights, I should be the one coughing," he teased. "Never really looked at it this was before, but I guess I get to kill little Charlie after all. Even if I don't use _this_…" – he held the Glock to his temple, again, tapping Charlie's forehead casually, and Don winced – "…and do it fast, I can use _this_…" – he took another drag off the cigarette – "…and do it slow!"

Don refused to rise to the bait, staring at Danielson silently. Jeff smoked for another few minutes, smirking at Don, before he began to speak again. "You're a little smarter than I was led to believe," he said. As he spoke, he tapped hot ash onto the tile countertop of the bar.

_Great_, thought Don. _So much for my damage deposit_. He lifted his eyes from the melting ash to face his tormenter. His brother. "You have no idea," he responded.

Jeff tensed a little. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Don shifted a little, careful to keep his hands in the same position around the handle. "I've been thinking. Charlie met Jeff once – maybe twice. Never even got a chance to work on a case with him. All he knows about Jeff is what we told him up at Bradford's cabin – and what Mark told him, for over a month." Danielson didn't respond, but Don saw him swallow. He continued. "We didn't tell him that much about Jeff; mostly we had a lot of intel on Mark. There's no way Charlie's sub-conscious could make this guy up out of whole cloth." Don waited, but still Danielson did not speak. Don lowered his voice, and narrowed his eyes. "You're Mark, aren't you? Charlie was tortured and brainwashed by you; I can see his fragmented mind convincing itself that he is Mark; Mark, still trying to mold what's left of Charlie into Jeff."

Danielson took a final drag, ground his cigarette out on the tile, and tapped Charlie's chin with the Glock. He smiled. "My. You _are_ good." The two men glared hatred across the room. "No matter. Either way, you die. Either way, it will finish Charlie off for good. I'll let him come to the surface just long enough to fully comprehend what he has done – murdered his own brother – and then he will be as dead as you are." Danielson snorted in derision. "The gutless little freak _loves_ you; so much that it will kill him."

Don wished that Danielson would at least lay the Glock down; but he had to bump things up a notch, regardless of the risk. "You hate that, don't you?" he asked. "You hate that because you know you never loved Jeff that much. For all your postulating, you left him, with a man who beat the shit out of him, when he was only 14. You left him."

Charlie's face twisted in anger and he shot backwards off the stool, pointing the Glock at Don. "Shut up!" he yelled, backing away from the kitchen. "That's not true! That's not true!"

"Yes it is!" Don yelled back, over the ever-widening spanse between them. "You were selfish, and a coward, and you didn't love Jeff enough!"

Charlie had reached the vestibule now, and he slammed the Glock into the wall, enraged. Mark wanted to shoot Eppes, pump every bullet the weapon held into him and then empty the revolver into him as well. It was almost more than he could do, to stop himself; but he knew the noise would alert someone. He would have to kill him with some other, quieter weapon. Swearing, he slammed the Glock into the sheetrock again, bruising his hand and knocking the gun out of it, so that it fell onto the hardwood and slid several feet away.

Don saw his chance, and he ripped his hand out of the unlocked cuff, letting them dangle from his other wrist. He started to move, hoping to reach Charlie before Danielson remembered the other gun in his pocket. He skidded to a stunned halt as he drew even with the bar; the front door was opening.

"What's going on in here?" demanded Alan, stepping inside, taking his keys from the lock and closing the door. "I could hear you boys shouting all the way down the hall!"

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End, Chapter 11


	12. Think 'Sybil'

**Title: ****GTB, Part II: Ramifications**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Make one up.**

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**Chapter 12: Think 'Sybil'**

Don froze, one hand behind his back, gripping the .22 he had just pulled from his waistband. "Dad..." he croaked.

Alan, just inside the door, was focused on the hole that gaped in the hallway sheetrock. He frowned at his youngest son. "What do you think you're doing to your brother's apartment, Charlie?" He glanced at Don. "You should make him pay for the repairs."

Mark/Jeff/Charlie bit off a giggle. This was...more than he ever could have asked. Exquisite. Agent Eppes would watch his brother kill his father, before his brother killed him. He steadied himself with a hand on the telephone table; the thought was actually making him weak in the knees.

"Charlie's...not himself right now," Don responded, his voice strained. "Dad, you shouldn't have come."

Alan was never sure what tipped him off. Perhaps it was the Glock, which he suddenly saw lying on the floor just a few feet away. It definitely could have been the handcuffs he could also see, dangling from Don's wrist. Perhaps it was the tone of his eldest's voice. Whatever the cause, Alan was suddenly as afraid as he had ever been in his entire life. Uneasily, he let his eyes stray to Charlie again. "I thought..." He looked back at Don. "I heard..." The palms of his hands were sweating. He took half a step toward Don. "I'll make..."

"Stop!", ordered Charlie, and Alan swiveled his head again in amazement. In 30 years he had never heard that particular...quality...in his son's voice.

He gasped when he found himself staring directly into the barrel of a revolver. Charlie was only a few feet away from him, and when he extended his arms to point the weapon in a two-handed grip, it was almost close enough for Alan to touch. Even while part of his mind told him there were more serious things to worry about, still Alan couldn't help it; his feelings were hurt. "Charlie, son, I don't understand..."

Mark backed up a step. "Don't call me that," he hissed. "My name is Mark. I might even answer to Jeff -- but there is very little of Charlie left in here, I can guarantee that." He wiggled the gun. "On your knees, old man."

Alan shot Don a look of pure confusion. "What?"

Don's own face was a mask of agony. "Think 'Sybil', Dad. You'd better do what he says. That's a real gun."

Comprehension passed in a rush over Alan's features. "Oh, my God," he breathed, turning his head toward Charlie again.

This time the step he took was in his youngest's direction, but Mark backed up again and started yelling. "Don't come near me! You can't touch me, anymore, you hear me old man? You'll never hurt me again!"

Compassion fairly oozed from the oldest Eppes. "You're confused, Mark. I _love_ my boys; I never hurt my sons; that was _your_ father." Mark released the gun with one hand and fisted it in the hair near Charlie's temple, pushing at a headache, and Alan made an unnoticed advance. He spoke quietly, with soft sympathy. "Colby told us, at the cabin. How Jeff's FBI jacket referred to the domestic abuse in his family during his childhood. I'm very sorry. No-one deserves that, Mark. No-one."

Alan was almost close enough to lunge for the gun, but Mark suddenly snapped to full attention, backing away again and returning to his two-handed grip on the weapon. "You're lying," he seethed. "_Lying_. Jeff never...it was always me, I was the one he hated. I never would have left my brother there if I had known..." He winced, and staggered a little. "I said, 'get down'. Don't say another word, or I'll plug you full of holes right now! **ON YOUR KNEES!"**

"Dad," Don choked, his own gun hanging loosely at his side now. His voice was barely a whisper. "God, please..."

Alan was now standing even with the telephone table. He reached to lay a hand flat on the heavy wooden surface, lowering himself shakily to his knees beside it, facing Don. "Hands behind your head," instructed Mark, drawing closer. "Fingers interlaced."

Alan silently did as he was told, but Don almost passed out. Danielson was putting Alan in the execution position. "Don't," he mouthed, raising his weapon. Slightly startled when no sound came forth, he cleared his throat and tried again, sliding a round into the chamber. "Charlie, don't."

Danielson's attention wavered from Alan and took in the gun Don was pointing at him. He raised Charlie's eyebrows in almost comical disbelief as he continued to approach the man kneeling on the floor. "My, my, my. You've just got those things all over the place, don't you?" Directly behind Alan now, he stradled the old man's feet and buried the muzzle of the .38 in his hair, just below the interlaced fingers.

Danielson pulled back the hammer of the revolver, and Alan, slightly grey and off-color, looked at Don with pleading eyes. "You can't shoot him, Donny. It's Charlie. It's Charlie."

Mark smirked. "He has a point." Alan was trembling below him, and Mark quickly formulated his plan. If he shot the old man first, the agent would fire in retaliation before he got a chance to re-aim. On the other hand, as long as he was holding the gun this close to the father, Don wouldn't shoot. At the last millisecond, Danielson could raise the weapon and let a round fly at Don, instead. The old man was unarmed, and he would be too shocked to do anything anyway. If the first bullet did not finish the agent, good; he could watch, writhing on the floor, while Danielson spattered Dad all over the wall. There would still be plenty of ammunition left to empty into the agent. He wavered a little, an internal battle threatening to take him down as Charlie warred for control. "Shut-up," he muttered. "All of you. Everybody. Shut-up."

Don didn't speak, but neither did he lower his weapon. Alan suddenly gasped and squeezed shut his eyes -- Don wondered how he had missed hearing the shot, but then he saw his father clawing at his chest. "My heart..." he wheezed, starting to crumple the remainder of the distance to the floor.

Simultaneously, several things happened. As Alan's head pulled away from the .38, Charlie heard his father's agony. With a gargantuan effort, he pushed Mark/Jeff down, and emerged, terrified that his father was having a heart attack. "Dad," he whispered, in a voice so low that even Alan did not hear. Charlie let go of the gun with one hand, intending to reach for his wilting father. He lifted the other hand away from Alan, meaning to shake the foreign gun off as if it was an unwelcome tarantula.

Don saw the hand reaching for Alan; he saw the other hand, still holding the gun, move. "I'm sorry, Charlie," he said, and the sound was lost as he fired his own weapon, tears streaming down his face. The .22 was small caliber, but the distance between brothers was not great, and the slug slammed into Charlie's shoulder with the power of a linebacker. His fingers convulsed, discharging the .38, muting the sound of his scream. The force of the bullet he had taken combined with the recoil from the weapon he had fired, turning him toward the left; Alan had fully collaspsed now, unconscious, his feet still between Charlie's. As his body tried to turn, Charlie found himself falling, their feet tangling together. It all happened so quickly, he could not command his wounded arm to somehow stop the descent. Rather, he slammed head-first into the telephone table, knocking himself out cold. The table's ornate carving stamped a perfect 'S' in his forehead, before he bounced off and landed in a heap on top of Alan, eventually rolling off to lie next to his father on the laminate flooring.

Near the kitchen, Don had lunged to the left as he fired his weapon, an ingrained evasive maneuver that probably saved his life. Still, the bullet discharged from the .38 caught him square in the right bicep, nicking the brachial artery and traveling on to damage the radial nerve. The pain was excrutiating. The physical stab of the wound; the agony of watching his brother fall, after he shot him; the torture of seeing his father die from an apparent heart attack...it was overwhelming, and Don bellowed as he dropped to his knees. Blood spurted from his arm with every beat of his beleagured heart, leaving him weak and woozy, but he crawled toward his family. He pushed guns out of the way every few inches, and grew more wobbly the closer to them he got. Don was almost there when he crashed prostrate to the floor. His vision was blurry from tears and blood loss, but he managed to stretch his good arm away from his body, and toward his father's.

By the time Don lost consciousness, bleeding to death on his own hardwood floor, their fingertips were barely touching.

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End, Chapter 12


	13. Next of Kin

**Title: ****GTB, Part II: Ramifications**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Ad infitum.**

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**Chapter 13: Next of Kin**

Amita parked on the street at the rear of Don's apartment complex and sat for a moment in her car, after she turned off the engine. This was a silly idea. For one thing, Alan Eppes had not sounded like he was trying to hide any information; if Charlie was still at Don's place, wouldn't he have known that? For another, it was almost 9 on Monday morning. Even if Charlie had spent the weekend with Don, the F.B.I. agent didn't get summers off; he went to work at least an hour ago.

Of course, if Charlie was _hiding_ at Don's aparment – trying to avoid both their father and her, for some reason – Don would give him full run of the place and go ahead and leave. She opened the door and exited her vehicle, deciding it wasn't hard at all to imagine Don covering for his little brother.

She had parked on the street behind the complex purposely, so she could approach through the parking lot, and now weaved her way along the pedestrian walkway on the edge of the asphalt. Right away she noticed Charlie's Prius in a visitor's spot, and she quickened her step, starting to get a little angry again. This was ridiculous; it had been months since that horrible ordeal with Mark Danielson, and Charlie needed to move on, not retreat. For a while, things had seemed to be getting better, if only slowly. He taught a few classes. He was spending time with her, even if he did forget things a lot. He had seemed very friendly every time she spoke to him on the phone, while she was in D.C. with Larry and Megan. She wasn't sure what went wrong. He seemed…off…at the barbecue, and finally succumbed to the first migraine he'd had in almost six months. Then he lied to his father about going to see her. For all she knew, he had lied to her about going to see Don, too. Sure, he was here _now_…but had he been here since Saturday afternoon? Megan would probably say that he was scared. It was summer now, and he was faced with the fact that they both had more free time for each other. He knew that it was time to 'put up or shut up', and he wasn't ready.

She lifted her chin in slight defiance. Well if that was the case, it was simply too bad. Where was it written that she had to be the one to make all the accommodations in this relationship? Hadn't she been patient, and supportive, all these months?

Wait.

Wasn't that Don's SUV?

Her step slowed, and she looked at the vehicle in confusion. Why would Don still be here? There it was, though, black and as big as life, in its assigned place. Her sense of unease only intensified as she drew close enough to recognize the car next to it. Each apartment was given two spaces in the covered carport area, and the one next to the SUV was occupied by Alan Eppes' silver Acura. What the hell? Amita tilted her head. She had just talked to him an hour ago, and she had called the house phone at the Craftsman, so she knew he was there. Walking around the Acura, she placed a hand on the hood: Still warm. Alan must have had the same idea she had, coming over here to find out what was going on with Charlie.

_Well, great minds think alike_, she shrugged, walking back to the edge of the lot. She chewed her lip as she entered the rear of the lobby through the double glass doors. Apparently, all three of them were here, having some sort of high-level powwow. She passed the wall of mailboxes and hesitated before opening the door that led to the stairwell. Maybe she shouldn't interrupt.

It took her all of five seconds to decide. She couldn't live like this anymore. Alan kept insisting she was a member of the family, and by God, she was going to call him on it.

Don's apartment was on the third floor, but it only took her a few seconds to get there. Her legs were used to the rolling campus of CalSci, and she traversed the stairwell in the Math & Sciences building a dozen times a day. She wasn't even breathing hard when she reached for the door that stood between her and the quiet, carpeted halls of the third floor. If anything, she wasn't breathing _at all_ – Don's apartment was in the middle of this corridor, only a few feet away now, and her apprehension was growing. _No time like the present_, she finally thought, squaring her shoulders and yanking open the door.

The sight that greeted her rooted her to the spot. Several individuals in varying states of dress stood outside the open door of Don's apartment, looking in and murmuring, like a crowd at a crime scene. The thought spurred her feet into action, and suddenly she was running. She skidded to a halt as close to the doorway as she could get, craning her neck to get a glimpse inside over the shoulder of the tall man in front of her, who she recognized as Don's super. She and Charlie had come here for dinner once, several months ago, and a pipe had burst under the kitchen sink – he had come up to work on the repairs while she and the Eppes had opted to go out for pizza, instead.

Inadvertently she bumped the bathrobed-shoulder of the older woman next to her. "What happened?" she asked of no-one in particular, but the jostled woman seemed to think Amita was addressing her.

"Shots fired," she whispered importantly. "My grandson and I live just across the hall; heard everything. There was some yelling, first, and then _Pop! Pop!_" Amita shuddered, but the gossip did not seem to notice. "He's some sort of cop, the one who lives here. Now and then, when he helps me with the groceries or somethin', I get a peek at that gun under his jacket, or the badge clipped on his belt."

It was Amita's turn to be jostled when a pimply-faced teenager ran into the crowd, holding up a small red square with a diagram of a heart on the front. "I got it, Gram," he shouted excitedly, and the old woman smiled proudly.

"That's good, Bobby. Go ahead, take it in to Mr. Davis." She shot Amita a smug smile. "That there's the heart thing we keep in the apartment, since I had those two attacks. Bobby took some classes at the Red Cross, and got a part-time job after school to help pay for it. He's a good boy."

Amita paled. "Someone's heart stopped?"

The old woman shrugged. "Well, I guess so. Mr. Davis from down the hall, he's a night foreman at a print shop, and he knows a lot about this kind of stuff. He worked overtime last night, and was just passing the door when he heard the shots. Me and Bobby came a-runnin'" – she sniffed at the several others crowed around Don's door – "and these folk, too. Lollygaggers, just want to be part of the excitement…"

Amita frantically touched the terrycloth of the robe over her arm, desperate to hear more. "Who's heart? Who's in there?"

The old woman would not be deterred in her story. This was the most important thing that had happened to her in years. "Mr. Davis, he just put his hand on that doorknob and twisted, and went right in. Bobby's best friend, Billy – he's away at his father's right now – but his mother, Barbara, she works in a nursing home. She went in, too." She looked distastefully at the super still blocking Amita's view. "Somebody must've called this oaf, and he came up and stopped us all. Something about evidence," she huffed. "Anyway, Mr. Davis helped me and Bobby with that heart thing, decidin; which one to buy, so he know's we have it; he said some old man in there needed it, and sent Bobby after it."

Amita's own heart fell. _Some old man_ could only be Alan. But what about the shots everyone had heard? Even if Alan had experienced a heart attack, that didn't explain the gunfire. The small crowd was jostled again as Bobby squirted back out the apartment door, stopping to tell his grandmother about his latest assignment. "He says I should go down to the street, and flag down the cops, and the ambulance!" he reported excitedly.

A young mother with a baby on her hip, standing near the front of the crowd, overheard and started trying to back out of the circle. "I'll go with you, Bobby," she offered, her face somewhat green. "I think I need some air anyway."

With all the movement in the crowd, Amita finally found herself in a position where she could see inside. She staggered once, and wavered, shocked by what she saw. All three Eppes men were on the floor, and there was blood everywhere. A man was kneeling, taking a set of pads from the AED Bobby had just delivered. Alan was on his back. His shirt had been ripped open, his chest exposed. Slightly behind him, a middle-aged, overweight woman kneeled next to Don. One hand gripped a blood-soaked towel on his arm, while the other seemed to be buried in his armpit. Even in her shock Amita remembered enough of her own first aid classes to understand that the woman was applying pressure to Don's axilliary artery, trying to stop the flow of blood. Worst of all, Charlie was lying closest to the door, facing the hallway, on his side. Amita could see that his t-shirt was also soaked with blood, contained mostly around one shoulder, and there was also blood all over one side of his face, from some sort of head wound. His eyes were closed, and he looked almost peaceful – but he was alone. No-one was helping him. "Charlie," she whispered, trying to push past the super, who was guarding the door.

"Can't let anyone else in," he announced gruffly, holding her back. He followed her gaze and his own expression softened. "His injuries ain't as bad as they look; should be okay until the paramedics get here."

Amita dragged her eyes away from Charlie and looked at the super, prepared to argue, but was distracted by a tinny female voice that sounded suspiciously like the programmed recording on her answering machine. "Analyzing," said the nasal voice loudly, and Amita looked back to see that the defibrillator pads had been attached to Alan's chest, and the small red machine was talking. "Assessing cardiac rhythm," she heard. "Please stand by. Analyzing." Suddenly an orange button on the machine lit up, flashing, and the voice seemed to take on a new urgency. "Shock indicated," it commanded. "Stay clear of patient. Depress the orange, flashing button. Stay clear of patient." The man kneeling over Alan backed off a little, checking to make sure no-one was touching him. When Amita saw him shove Charlie a little so that his feet fell off of Alan's, she began to back silently away from the door. _This wasn't happening_, she thought, as she watched Alan's body arch from the defibrillator's shock. She continued to back away, not even noticing when she stepped on the bathrobed-grandmother's foot. _This wasn't happening_, she thought, as she heard the machine advise that it was now safe to touch the patient. She was away from the small crowd, now, and she turned abruptly, running for the stairwell. She had to get outside. She had to get outside. She had to get outside.

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Tom Irvine had gone into the break room, to place a call to his pregnant wive. She was only six months along, but he was a basket case. It was their first, and he found himself calling her several times a day. He went home for lunch when he could, or, if Stacy was coming into the city for some reason, as she was today for a doctor's appointment, they would meet. He and Sinclair were about to leave for a witness interview on one of their cases, and even though he would see Stacy in just a few hours, Tom wanted to call her first. He'd taken to making the calls from the break room to avoid Granger's constant teasing. He was alone in the room, wandering as he talked, and his eyebrows went up when Assistant Director Wright got off the elevator, carrying a file, and headed for the bullpen. Much as he hated to do it, he interrupted his wife. "Baby," he said quietly, "I think something's up. Wright's here. I'd better go. I'll see you at noon at Mario's, sweetie. Love you."

His wife returned the sentiment and he disconnected the call, pocketing his phone and following Wright to the bullpen. Granger was on the phone, but the A.D. had stopped at his desk. Sinclair was rising from his own, approaching the two. Irvine took a position slightly behind Granger. Colby quickly made his excuses and ended his call. Irvine noted that he was slightly pale as he looked up at the A.D. Granger pushed back his chair and started to rise. "Mornin' sir."

Wright skipped all the polite preliminaries. His sweeping gaze included them all. "Gentlemen. I just received a courtesy call from LAPD dispatch. Units and ambulances have been sent to Agent Eppes' building; his aparment. Shots fired."

"What the…." Colby began, but Wright interrupted, thrusting the folder in his direction.

"I took the liberty of pulling Agent Eppes' jacket. His medical history is in there, as well as next of kin information that the hospital might need."

Sinclair spoke up. "Has anyone contacted Alan or Charlie?"

The A.D. shook his head solemnly. "Dispatch was unable to reach either one of them. There is no solid information as to who is involved in the shooting, yet – but there have been at least two calls received that indicate three men are down."

Colby inhaled sharply, almost dropping the file. "Three?"

Wright nodded. "That's one reason I brought the file. God forbid that it's…" He cleared his throat. "Of course Agent Eppes' father and brother are listed as his next-of-kin," he noted, staring hard at Colby, "but as you are no doubt aware, Don listed you as well, in the event that neither of his primary contacts was available."

Colby paled. _Holy shit_ -- he had forgotten all about that. He and Don had made that arrangement years ago, not long after Granger had joined the L.A. office – before the whole thing with the Chinese blew up in his face. Their team had been one of the teams in on a bad bust; two agents on another team had ended up dead, and one of those men had listed "none" on the 'Next of Kin' line in his jacket. David was dating Claudia at the time, and he had crawled home to rest in her arms, but Colby and Don had ended up drunk and commiserating at Colby's small, dismal apartment. Granger had cried – literally cried, he remembered now with embarrassment – that the same thing was going to be his legacy. He had no-one to act as his 'Next of Kin', either. Don had solemnly volunteered to put his own name on the dotted line, and Colby had been so touched he had insisted on returning the favor. When the alcohol had leeched from his system, Don had actually remembered that promise, and Colby had almost cried again. The two of them had gone up to personnel and completed the necessary paperwork; which Colby now held in his shaking hand. He had never, not once, imagined that this would be necessary. Sure, maybe Don would have to uphold his end of the deal, but Colby was last in line. Alan, or Charlie, would take care of things if anything happened to Don. Right?

Three down.

There were three male victims, at Don's apartment.

Colby straightened, grabbed his keys off the corner of his desk, and started barking out orders as if the Assitant Director was not standing right in front of him. "David," he spat, "take Tom and get to the scene. Find out whatever you can." He glanced at Wright. "Where?"

The Assistant Director read his mind. "Dispatch indicated they will transport all victims to UCLA Trauma."

Granger nodded. "Right. I'm headed there, with this paperwork."

Wright agreed, to a point. "That's a copy of course; the originals are on file in personnel. A secretary there is faxing them as we speak, so you shouldn't really need that. Still, it's best to be over-prepared in a situation like this."

Colby's eyes strayed to the clock near the edge of the bullpen. "The Clemens case…" he began.

Wright shook his head. "Your cases have been temporarily reassigned."

Colby smiled tightly. "We'll keep you informed," he promised the A.D., pushing past him. He called over his shoulder to his teammates. "Sinclair! Irvine! Let's get the hell outta here."

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End, Chapter 13


	14. The Waiting Game

**Title: ****GTB, Part II: Ramifications**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Ad infitum.**

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**Chapter 14: The Waiting Game  
**

By the time Colby reached the sprawling 11-story brick building that was UCLA Medical Center, navigated to Trauma and located the appropriate clerk, he was informed that Agent Eppes was currently being evaluated in Bay 17, and a physician would speak with him as soon as possible. Granger thanked the graying woman politely, and shot her his best, most hopeful grin. "What can you tell me about the two others who came in from the same incident?"

The woman checked her computer screen, tapped a few keys and frowned up at him sourly from her seated position behind the desk. "I can tell you that it's none of your business," she responded primly. "Both individuals carried Health Care Directive cards in their wallets, and you were not listed as Personal Representative on either of them. You are not entitled to any information regarding their condition."

The charming boyhood grin was instantly replaced by interrogation-room Bad Cop. He drew himself up to his full height and breadth, his free hand on his hip. "I did not request information on their condition," he said loudly, causing several heads to turn. "You're dealing with a federal agent, sweetheart -- I know the law. Until and unless a patient opts out of the daily census report, you are required to confirm his presence in your facility. Has either of these patients requested that their names not be released?"

Her face reddened and she gave as good as she got, raising her own voice. "You did not request census information by name, officer. I have worked here for 22 years, and I assure you, I am familiar with applicable laws myself."

Colby played the trump card, pulling his ID out of his back pocket. He opened it one-handed and slapped the thin leather case on the counter; hard. Several more heads turned, both behind and in front of the desk. "F.B.I.," he spat. He held up Don's personnel file and shook it. "This man is also a federal agent, viciously attacked in his own home. His injury is under our jurisdiction; this is an open investigation..." -- he leaned threateningly over the chest-high counter -- "and you will tell me the names of the individuals brought in with him, or I will subpoena every last record in this sorry-ass joint. If you want to make it to your 23rd anniversary, I wouldn't recommend being responsible for that."

The woman pursed her lips tightly, and Colby was pretty sure he saw steam coming from her ears, but she was tapping the keyboard again. Finally she looked up at him and snarled an answer. "Mr. Alan Eppes, and a Mr. Charles Eppes. Agent." She shoved back her chair and stood behind the desk, and Colby was decidedly shocked to discover the woman was over 6 feet tall, and was looking him in the eye. "You want any more, you bring that subpoena with you."

Granger snatched his ID off the counter, nodded curtly and strode toward the waiting area, his heart getting closer to his toes with every step. _Way to win friends and influence people_, he thought darkly, parking himself in a chair. As soon as David and Tom showed up, he would send one of them to a cell-phone-use area and call Millie at CalSci. Maybe faculty had to keep updated 'Next of Kin' information, too; hopefully Charlie had someone besides his father and brother listed...maybe Amita, or Larry? He tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling and swore under his breath. _Shit_; he had to get in touch with Larry and Megan in Santa Barbara, too. And Millie. She was going to freak, about both Charlie _and_ Alan... Alan. Colby sighed, and lowered his head almost to his chest, stretching tight muscles in his neck. He racked his brain, trying to recall someone other than Don and Charlie that Alan may have named as his Personal Representative, but all he came up with was a much-older sister...Iris? Erin I...rene, Irene! If Colby remembered correctly, Alan's sister was close to 80, and living in an Assisted Living Facility in San Diego. Surely he wouldn't have chosen her? Colby sighed and pushed himself out of the hard plastic chair, and began pacing the perimeter of the room. Hopefully, one of the brothers would be conscious and capable of making any decisions that had to be made. Better yet, he mused, pausing at a water cooler in the corner for a cold cup of water, Alan was conscious, and could make his own decisions.

The more time that passed without the appearance of a doctor, though, the less likely either of those two possibilities looked. Colby was just about to search out an area safe for cell use himself when David showed up and pulled Colby into a far corner of the waiting area. "Dude, he started, sinking into a chair, "you'd better sit down for this."

Colby stalled for time, not sure he wanted to hear anything that required such an intro. He looked both ways down the hospital corridor before returning his gaze to David. "Where's Tom?" He settled uneasily beside his partner and waited for an answer.

"Still at the scene," David replied. "I knew you probably couldn't get to a phone, so I wanted to give you what we've got so far. How is he?"

Colby shrugged. "Haven't heard a word." He glanced with chagrin toward the information desk. "I think I pretty much wore out my welcome pulling rank when I first got here; but at least I found out for sure that Alan and Charlie are the other two vics."

David winced. "Tom's gonna catch a lift back to the office and start going through our active case files, try to find out if Don pissed somebody off."

Colby snickered. "More than usual, you mean?" His smile faded when David did not return one. "What?"

"We found three weapons," David continued. "Don's Glock, his snub-nose back-up piece, and a .22 semi-auto."

Colby interrupted. "That's probably Don's, too. He used it for his back-up for a while when he was having the .38 re-sighted a couple of years ago."

"That explains why his prints are on it," David said. "LAPD Forensics brought one of those hand-held fingerprint scanners to the scene. They knew we'd want a rush on this, so they ran the prints on the guns right there at the apartment. Don's prints or partials are on all of them -- but that's to be expected, since they're all his guns. But get this: His are the _only_ prints on the .22, but both the Glock and the .38 have Charlie's prints on them."

Colby frowned slightly. "Maybe Don had time to get the guns to Charlie, after someone broke in to the apartment?"

"Maybe," conceded David. "Or maybe Charlie was in the back bedroom or something, and the perp didn't even know he was there, and he retrieved the weapons himself." He lowered his voice a little, leaning slightly toward Colby. "One of the first officers on the scene said Don had a set of handcuffs dangling from one wrist; probably his own. If someone restrained him, wouldn't they restrain Charlie as well?"

Colby agreed. "I don't see why not. Look, can I assume we're dealing with GSWs, here? I really haven't heard anything from these people yet."

David nodded. "LAPD said the paramedics said both Don and Charlie were hit. There's blood everywhere, man -- somebody got hit bad -- and there was blood on Alan, but no entry wound. Looks like he had a heart attack. Had to be jump-started by a neighbor with one of those portable AED things, like we have in the first aid station at the Bureau."

"He must have walked in on it," Colby decided, thinking aloud. "He goes over to check on Don, and uses his key because he knows Don is sick. Maybe he walks in after one of them is already shot, and sees the blood -- he has a heart attack."

This time David frowned. "The thing is, the neighbor who used the AED..." -- he checked the notebook in his hand briefly, then looked back to Colby -- "Davis. He was walking down the hall outside the apartment when he heard the gunshots. He's a vet, did his time as a medic in Kosovo, and he just walked right in." He shook his head. "Didn't even hesitate. He recognized the gunfire for what it was, and just walked right in. Could have gotten himself killed. He claims there was no-one else in the apartment."

"What?" Colby was convinced he'd heard that wrong. "He's crazy. Must've missed somebody in the excitement..."

David shook his head again. "The old lady from across the hall was just opening her door to look for the paper, and she heard the shots too. She watched Davis go in, and she backs up his story. No-one ever came out."

Colby tried to envision Don's apartment. The living room window looked out on the street, but didn't open. A couple in the master bedroom did, however, as well as a small one in the spare bedroom. "Windows?"

"The one in the second bedroom is too narrow for most people to fit through; it was locked, anyway. The ones in the main bedroom were shut, but not locked; screens intact. If somebody went out one of those, he took the time to clean up after himself."

"I guess that's possible," Colby speculated in a voice that clearly said he didn't really believe that it was. "If nobody cleared the apartment until LAPD got there, the perp could work pretty much unhindered..."

Further conjecture was halted by the arrival of a young hospital employee in disturbingly bloody scrubs. "You here for Don Eppes?" he asked tiredly, indicating the information desk with a toss of his head. "Brun Hilda says you're the feds."

Colby had the decency to blush as he stood, offering his hand. "Yeah," he admitted "I may not have used my inside voice."

The young doctor suppressed a smile as he shook Colby's hand, and then David's, who was now also standing. "Brian Freeman," he said by way of introduction. "Doctor. I still forget that part."

"You've been handling Don's case?" David asked, a little apprehensive.

The doctor shrugged. "I'm just a first-year resident; I've been assisting. Dr. Isabella Cantor has been his ER attending, and Dr. Matt Reyes is the consulting surgeon. They just sent me out to tell you that he's hangin' in, and give you these." The doctor held up his other hand and displayed two small specimen bottles, each containing a bullet. "You need these for your investigation, right?"

Colby answered while David took possession of the vials. "Yeah. Those both from Don?"

The doctor shook his head. "Nah, I stopped at Bay 18 and picked up the one for the other Eppes on the way. Charles." He offered a small smile. "The docs will be out soon. I'm sorry I can't tell you more."

Colby bit off a sigh of frustration. "Thanks," he muttered, and Freeman headed back the way he had come. Colby watched him for a while and then looked at David, about to talk to him about calling Larry and Millie. He hesitated at the look on David's face. "Now what?" he asked in exasperation.

David held up the vial clearly marked "C. Eppes". "This slug is a .22," he noted, holding up the other specimen bottle in his other hand. This one was labeled "D. Eppes". "Here we have a .38."

The implication hit Colby like a brick between the eyes, and he sat down hard. After a few seconds, David followed. "We can't be sure until ballistics compares these to the guns," he practically whispered.

Colby responded in a whisper of his own. "Holy shit. Holy shit, Dave. No wonder Alan had a heart attack. It looks like Don shot Charlie -- and Charlie shot Don."


	15. Eyewitness Report

**Title: ****GTB, Part II: Ramifications**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Ad infitum.**

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**Chapter 15: Eyewitness Report  
**

Colby was sure he and David were mistaken; they had missed something important. Hell, Charles Manson had been apprehended hiding in a tiny 2-foot-square cupboard -- maybe LAPD hadn't been thorough in clearing the apartment and the shooter was still there. A shooter who just happened to have both a .38 and a .22. A shooter who liked to take turns with his weapons. Or, if it was someone who was out to punish Don -- like Danielson had been -- maybe the perp somehow forced them to plug each other, or waited until they were down and planted their prints on the guns. As the unofficial and undeclared interim team leader, Colby had asked David to go back to the apartment complex and canvas all the neighbors on Don's floor, door-to-door. Maybe somebody wasn't talking, and someone had been seen going in or coming out of the apartment. David had promised to contact Larry, Megan, Amita and Millie before he even got out of the medical center's parking garage, and had sprinted for the exit, leaving Colby to pace and ponder. Now, Colby headed reluctantly for Brun Hilda. He needed to make sure gunshot residue tests were done on all three Eppes.

He walked slowly, dreading the confrontation, and had almost reached the information desk when he was intercepted by two hospital employees, distinguishable by the scrubs they wore and the stethoscopes looped around their necks. Granger had been so focused on the glare Brun Hilda was shooting his way upon his approach, that he hadn't even seen them coming. He sighed in relief. "You've gotta be the docs."

The female nodded, but didn't crack a smile or offer her hand. "Dr. Cantor," she said, reaching instead for Colby's elbow. "This is Dr. Reyes, the consulting surgeon from neuro." She steered Colby down the hall, toward the exam area. "Please come with us, Agent...?"

Colby let himself be pulled. "Granger. Agent Granger. Is there a problem? Are you taking me to Agent Eppes?"

Reyes, flanking Colby now on the other side, answered. "We were able to remove the bullet and repair the brachial artery, using a local, here in the ER. Time was of the essence. Agent Eppes regained consciousness when his blood loss was treated, and he's extremely uncooperative. We were able to determine that there has been some nerve involvement." The three had passed through a set of double doors and were hurrying past enclosed exam bays as Reyes spoke. "We were hopeful that removal of the bullet would release the nerve and the situation would correct itself." Colby was trying to follow. Brachial artery -- he was pretty sure that was in the arm. Don must have been shot in the arm, and now was experiencing nerve damage. Nerves controlled things like feeling, movement, and the ability to work in the field. So far, this wasn't sounding too good. The surgeon continued. "That was not the case, however, and I am prepared right now to take him up and perform microsurgery."

Colby slowed his step almost to a halt, forcing the doctors to slow with him. "So do it!" he urged. "Don's job is pretty dependent on two good arms. Especially if you're talking about his right one."

Cantor looked at him grimly. "We are," she confirmed, "and we're aware of the implications. As Dr. Reyes indicated, time is an issue here, but our patient is extremely difficult to treat; bordering on combative. He is refusing further sedation until he speaks with you."

"I urge you to keep it brief," Reyes advised, speeding his step. Colby followed behind like an obedient puppy, nodding. "It wouldn't hurt if you could talk some sense into him either," the surgeon added, and Colby winced. Yeah. Talk sense into Don Eppes. Like that was going to happen.

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Don's eyes were closed, and he was extremely pale. Both clear saline solution and a blood transfusion snaked their tubes and needles into his uninjured hand and the inside crook of his elbow. To avoid jostling them, Colby approached his injured side, leaning over the hospital bed. He thought about touching Don somewhere, but still hadn't been given a complete medical report -- he wasn't sure what was safe. So he settled for verbal communication. "Don," he said quietly. There was no response, so he decided that he had spoken _too_ quietly and raised his voice. "Eppes!"

Don's eyes shot open, glassy and confused, but focused almost immediately on Granger. To Colby's horror they filled with tell-tale moisture, as if Don was on the verge of tears. "Charlie," his friend whispered. "Charlie's in trouble."

Colby tried to reassure him. "He's here, Don, the docs are taking care of everything. Just let them take care of you, now."

Don moaned, closing his eyes, and shook his head weakly on the pillow. He opened his eyes again and tried to reach Colby with the hand full of IV ports -- Colby tried not to notice that his right arm wasn't moving at all. He stretched his own hand across the bed and grabbed two of Don's fingers, lowering his arm back to rest on the bed. "Bradford," Don breathed. "Call Bradford. Ch...Charlie..."

"Shhh," Colby interrupted, sensing the impatient shifting of the surgeon beside him. "We can talk about this later."

If Don had been able, his retort would have been a shout; but he couldn't manage it. Still, his eyes shot fire at Colby. "No! Now!"

Colby let go of Don's fingers and patted them with his own. "Okay, okay," he soothed, just trying to placate Don long enough to get him into surgery. "What do you want me to tell Bradford?"

This time a tear actually squeezed out of Don's right eye and ran down into his ear, scaring Colby worse than a firefight in Afghanistan. "Losing...losing time...thinks...thinks he's Danielson. MPD, I think. Saw...saw it happen..."

Colby processed that, with an FBI field agent's speed. Multiple Personality Disorder. Yeah, there had been someone in Don's apartment, trying to kill him -- and it was Mark Danielson, using Charlie's body as a docking station. Sweet Mother of God. "I...understand," he responded, because there really was nothing else to say.

Don nodded once, and closed his eyes again. Several more tears leaked out before he opened them again and looked at Colby with a despair that Granger felt all the way to his toes. "I shot him," Don confessed. "Think...think the recoil must've...affected his...aim." He tried to take a breath, his brow furrowing in pain. "He was going to shoot Dad." The despair turned to unmitigated fear. "Did he?"

Colby didn't know what to say -- the only information he had on Alan's condition was third-hand -- and he looked up frantically at Dr. Cantor, who stood near the head of the bed, where she had been adjusting Don's oxygen intake. Briefly, she shook her head. "No GSW. He's asked before, so I checked with Dr. Ross, the older gentleman's attending."

Colby looked back at Don, and attempted a smile. "You hear that, Eppes? Your Dad wasn't hit." He refrained from saying 'he's okay', because he was pretty sure Alan wasn't.

Relief passed over Don's expression for a brief moment, but soon the despair was back. "Colby...you've got to put...put someone on him... When Danielson takes over, Charlie...just disappears. Please. Please." Don clawed at Colby's arm again with his left hand. "Don't let...brother...disappear..."

He was fading fast, and Colby leaned a little closer to his ear, and spoke in a voice full of conviction he didn't really feel yet. "I'm on it, Don. Got it covered. You let the doc fix you up now, cuz it sounds like Charlie's gonna need you."

Don sighed, and seemed to sink further into the bed, his left hand sliding off Colby's arm. "Do it...now," he begged, keeping his eyes open with obvious effort.

Colby understood that Don would not rest until he saw Colby leave, headed for Charlie. So he smiled one last time, touched Don briefly on the cheek, and straighted. "He's okay, now," he informed Reyes. Then he turned on his heel and walked away.

He had to find Charlie, get some hospital security on him until he could get some back-up down here, and find out how the hell he was supposed to get ahold of Bradford, who had spent the 4th of July barbecue talking about his upcoming vacation.

Things had just gotten a little more complicated.

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Dr. Cantor was preparing Don for transport up to surgery, but Dr, Reyes followed Colby into the corridor, intending to go upstairs and start scrubbing up. He hesitated just a moment at the shell-shocked expression on Granger's face. "Thanks," the surgeon began. "He'll get the treatment he needs now." Colby just nodded dumbly and the doctor half-turned to leave, then looked back at the federal agent. "Try Bay 14," he finally said quietly. "I did another consult on a GSW there; I think that's your guy." Colby shot him a grateful smile before the two headed off in different directions.

Without the statuesque Brun Hilda to stop him, Colby just barged right in when he finally spied Charlie's unmistakably curly head. He was supine on a hospital bed, behind a glass partition that had an unobtrusive "14" stenciled low in one corner. A young woman in blue scrubs was disconnecting some monitors, and she whirled at the sound of his step. "Hey! You can't be back here!"

Colby already had his ID in his hand, and he flashed his badge at her. "F.B.I." Her eyes widened, then glanced at Charlie, still and clearly unconscious, with new respect.

"Is this guy under arrest? I was just taking him to X-ray for a CT."

Colby tiptoed the fence. "I need hospital security with this guy, until my own men get here."

The young resident who had brought Colby and David the bullets walked into the room, looking down at a chart in his hands. "What's the hold-up in here? We've gotta find out what's happening in this guy's head."

The X-ray tech shrugged, even though he couldn't see her. "This cop says he can't go anywhere without security."

At that the resident looked up, and smiled as he recognized Colby. "Hey. This guy is under arrest?"

Colby tried for an exchange of information. "What's wrong with him?" he countered.

The resident frowned slightly. "We're not sure. The GSW was fairly innocuous. Shallow, no muscle or nerve damage. A few stitches and a couple of days in a sling and it's all over -- but he's never regained consciousness. We're concerned about the head injury. What did he do?"

"I need security," Colby repeated. "We...I...he could be a danger to himself," he finally finished lamely.

The young doctor peered more closely at Charlie's shoulder. "This does not appear to be a self-inflicted wound..."

Colby jumped on that bandwagon. "Have you done residue tests? I'll need that information for my investigation. Look, I spoke with this man's brother, and until it's confirmed otherwise, I want him under protective detail."

The doctor stared at him for a moment, as if weighing the request, and then meandered to the wall to lift a telephone receiver from its base. He punched in a four-number extension. While he waited for an answer, he spoke to the X-ray tech. "Better hook him back up," he instructed. "Don't know how long he'll..." He stopped, suddenly, and redirected his attention to the telephone. "This is Dr. Freeman in the ER," he said authoritatively. I need a security detail down here to accompany a patient to X-ray and back. We'll need someone on him until the F.B.I. has its own people in place." He listened for a moment, then nodded once. "Very good," he said, wavering a bit at the end. "Um...thanks." He placed the receiver back in its cradle and turned to smile brightly at Colby. "Cool," he enthused, excited now. "I've never done that before."

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Colby stayed with Charlie until the hospital security detail arrived to take him to X-ray. The youngest Eppes was deeply under, but Colby was tempted to talk to him anyway. Only the presence of the X-ray tech kept him silent. If she figured out he was here as a friend of the family and not necessarily as an agent, it could screw everything up. After the officers arrived and the trio left Bay 14, Colby took a deep breath and headed back for the general waiting area. He peeked in 18 as he passed, but Don was already gone. When he passed through the double doors, Brun Hilda was staring right at him, so he kept walking -- surprised when he turned a corner to see a beautiful and peaceful outdoor courtyard. He stood in front of an automatic door until it opened, and made his way to a bench near a garden of ferns that reminded him painfully of Charlie's koi pond. He sighed as he sat, pulling out his cell phone. He flipped it open and turned it on, waiting for the unit to power up; then he speed-dialed David.

"Hey, Colby," his friend answered. "I've got three more apartments to go. What's up there?"

Colby closed his eyes and tilted his head back, feeling the warm summer sun on his face. "Dave, I need you to go back into Don's apartment and see if you can find his cell. He wants me to call someone."

"That's great, you got to talk to him," responded David. "If it's Robin, I already called her office. She's in court but they'll give her a message at the mid-morning recess. What else did he say?"

Colby swore under his breath -- he'd forgotten all about Robin. Thank God for David. He opened his eyes and moved his head a little to stare at a small waterfall and pond across the courtyard. "That's good, but it's not Robin. Just bring me the phone, okay?"

David noticed that Colby didn't answer his question, and it made him nervous -- along with the tone of Colby's voice. "Uh...sure. Now, or should I finish the canvas?"

"Dave, you need to pull LAPD off this. Get 'em all outta there -- tell 'em we're gonna handle this one in-house."

"What?" David asked in confusion. "Are you sure you want to do that?"

Again, Colby didn't answer. "Call Irvine; tell him to go ahead and keep his lunch date. I'm not sure what to do with him after that."

"Colby, what the hell is going on?"

Colby exhaled into the phone. "Bring me the cell, David. I'll be in a waiting room somewhere -- you'll have to ask for neurosurgery. Don has nerve damage. In his arm."

A few seconds of silence passed before David breathed. "Shit."

Colby couldn't help himself -- he laughed. "Dave," he answered tiredly, "you have no idea how deep."

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End, Chapter 15


	16. It's For You

**Title: ****GTB, Part II: Ramifications**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: I lie awake at night, contemplating all of the things I do not own.**

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**Chapter 16: "It's For You"**

It was the worst vacation of his sorry-ass life.

Not only had two of his sons refused to see him at all, Bobby hadn't exactly rolled out the red carpet. Since Bill had arrived in Philadephia late Saturday and checked into a four-star hotel in the historic district, he had seen the boy once. Dear Ol' Dad had been treated to brunch at the hotel restaurant on Sunday. Bob kept checking his watch; did not offer to show his father his new home; did not volunteer to take some time off to do the tourist thing with Pops. In fact, he claimed to be so busy at work, he doubted that he would be able to see Bill again before mid-week. _"Bill"_, that's what the kid called him, now. _"Maybe dinner on Wednesday,"_ that's what the boy offered.

As if that wasn't disturbing enough, his daughter had called from New York before breakfast this morning. A group of her friends had taken a summer rental out on Fire Island, and she had a chance to spend a week at the shore, cost-free. "They're leaving later this morning, Dad," she had explained. "I called my boss and got the time off -- my vacation is due anyway -- but I've got to go with them this morning if I'm going at all". Bill waited for Rissa to invite him to the island -- she had called him 'Dad', after all -- but she added insult to injury. "You wouldn't be comfortable around my friends," she shared. She giggled nervously. "Young, irresponsible, lazy -- all the stuff you hate. I thought maybe you could make another trip to New York this fall -- we'll go to some plays together. My boss could probably get us something good; he's dating a ticket agent."

So naturally Bill Bradford had told his little girl to have fun and relax on the island, disappointment and anger warring within him. He had taken the call in bed, but when he disconnected he lumbered out, royal blue silk pajamas slipping silently over starched white sheets. He paused at the chair a few feet from the bed long enough to don his matching dressing gown, and then unlocked the sliding glass door that led to the room's balcony. He stood barefoot in his PJs at the rail, watching the street below him, already teeming with life, and wondered what he had done wrong.

He had not been a terrible father, in the proactive sense. He did not beat his children into submission. He had to admit, however, that he was absent during a lot of their growing-up years. When he was a cop working a beat, his schedule and overtime kept him away a lot. Even after he had used the money he inherited from his own father to build the cabin, it was mostly a place for them; the wife and kids. _They_ would spend weeks on end there, but by that time, he was back in school working on his Master's and then his Ph.D in counseling. He was lucky to spend one weekend a month with them. The wife had figured out she didn't need him, and it was looking like the kids had that same idea.

So here he was, in the fall of his life, with only silk pajamas to comfort him. He felt like the star of a Harry Chapin song. He sighed and rubbed his hand over his jaw. What was he going to do with his month's vacation now? He could only spend so much time viewing the Liberty Bell. Hell, maybe he should just find a travel agency and buy a ticket to Paris. He could meet a hairy Mademoiselle at the Eiffel Tower and sweep her off her feet. He chuckled -- that would actually be just his luck. The poor woman would end up tumbling over the edge.

He started as the sound of a ringing phone reached his ears, and although he tried to push it down, he felt a surge of hope. Maybe Rissa had changed her mind -- or Bobby had carved out some more time for him. He hurried back inside, almost frantic. Perhaps one of the other boys was deciding to give him a chance. He snatched his cell from its position on the nightstand near the bed. "Rissa?"

"Dr. Bradford?"

Definitely not Rissa. Masculine, slightly familiar, but currently unknown. "Yes," he admitted guardedly.

"This is Colby Granger. I've got Don's cell here; that's how I got your number."

Bradford sat slowly on the edge of the bed. "Okay," he commented, not sure what else to say.

The agent sounded pretty tightly strung. "Listen, I'm just gonna say this; like ripping off a Band-Aid® fast. Both Don and Charlie were found shot this morning in Don's apartment. Alan was there too; heart attack. Pretty sure the guys shot each other -- I've got a little situation here."

Bradford's silk pajamas almost slipped off the bed, but he planted his feet firmly upon the floor and spoke sternly. "Agent Granger, if you are in need of counseling for your bad taste, I will be happy to refer someone. I'm on vacation."

"Wait!" Colby practically yelled. "Don't hang up! I'm not kidding -- you want me to get somebody official here to talk to you? I'm at UCLA Medical Center."

A feeling of dread had started in the doctor's bare toes and had almost reached his knees. "They shot each other?" The dread pushed at his scrotum.

"Don is in surgery right now, but he talked to me first, and that's what he said. He asked me to call you -- he said Charlie is in trouble. I'm not sure I understand it myself, but Don said Charlie has been losing time, and sometimes he thinks he's Mark Danielson. He said he saw this happen himself."

"Oh my God," Bradford breathed, lowering his head a little as the dread shot pell-mell to his heart. "Dissociative Identity Disorder."

Surprise was evident in Colby's voice. "Huh. We were thinking MPD."

Bradford waved a hand at no-one. "It's not called that anymore. Don claims to have seen another personality take over Charlie?"

"Yeah," Colby confirmed. "He asked me to put a guard on Charlie so that he doesn't regain consciousness as Mark and take off, or something. I'm not sure what to do, Doc. Should I arrest him? I've been thinking, and Charlie...I mean Mark...must have been presenting himself as Charlie for a while. If he wakes up and walks out of here as Charles Eppes, I can't really stop him." Confusion was apparent in his voice. "Can I? Don's girlfriend will be here sooner or later, maybe I should ask her. She's an attorney."

"Damn." So not only was Bill Bradford a failure as a father, he was a worthless therapist as well. He had been seeing Charlie on a regular basis for months, and he had not even suspected that this was going on. Although, in retrospect, it explained a few things. Charlie's new, easy demeanor at their last session, and his uncharacteristic behavior at the barbecue, for starters. Bradford had thought the migraine responsible for the latter, and had actually written in his notes that Charlie was more relaxed and positive, after the former. What kind of doctor was he? He dragged himself away from his self-flagellation -- plenty of time for that later -- and back to the conversation. "He's not conscious?"

"Nah," Colby answered. "The GSW isn't too serious -- soft tissue shoulder injury -- but somehow he sustained a head injury. They were taking him for a CT last I knew, but I can't get a lot of information about him, or Alan. Millie checked the personnel files and Larry's listed as Charlie's Health Care Rep, though, and he should be here soon. Anyway, I've got hospital security hangin' with Charlie now. but I can't keep that up forever. Should I place him under protective custody, or bust him for shooting Don?"

Bradford stood and started pacing the hotel room. An arrest record would probably not help a man in Charlie's current situation. "No. No. Listen, I'll call UCLA's psychiatric attending and have him placed on a 72-hour hold. That way they can either move him up to the secure psych ward, or leave security on him if he needs to be on neuro. I'll catch a flight back today -- tonight at the latest -- and we'll figure out what's next after I see him."

Colby smiled in relief. "You're coming back? What about your vacation?"

Bradford grimaced into the cell. "Let's just say that the Eppes brothers aren't the only ones shot full of holes."

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Colby stood to return to the surgical waiting area, had a thought and sat down again. David and Millie were both there, Larry and Megan were on the way. However, no-one had been able to get in touch with Amita. Also, Millie had discovered that Alan's advance directive was on file at Huntington, which everyone thought was good news; until one hospital faxed it to the other, and all interested parties were informed that the only two listed Health Care Representatives were Don and Charlie. They were virtually hopeless when it came to getting any information on Alan. Not for the first time, Colby considered having someone pose as Irene, calling about her brother. Maybe David's grandmother?

He found Amita's number in Don's contact list and tried the professor again. Just as David reported, the call went directly to voice mail. It was starting to make Colby a little uneasy; Millie had even done a drive-by, and Amita was not at her apartment.

Sighing, he checked his watch. Over two hours since Don had been taken to surgery. He had been promised updates every 30 minutes, but as of the time he had left the waiting area, there had been none. On a whim, he took out his own cell, called directory assistance and asked to be connected to UCLA Medical Center. He waded through some automated instructions, then pressed "0" for the operator. "This is Colby Granger," he announced. "I'm calling to check on the condition of Don Eppes. E – P – P – E – S; I believe he's in surgery."

"May I ask your relationship to the patient, sir?" Efficient young thing. Sounded pretty.

"I'm his Health Care Rep. The hospital has all the papers."

"Very well," she responded. "Mr. Eppes is out of surgery; he is resting in recovery. His condition is listed as fair at this time."

Colby leaned forward a little in the chair. "What? I'm..I was in the waiting room, and no-one came to tell me! I was told going in that the microsurgery could take four to six hours, and it's only been two!"

The professional demeanor cracked. "Oh. Oh, my. Microsurgery? It says here he was admitted directly to the cardiac cath lab."

Light bulb. "Are you sure you have the correct Eppes? That sounds like it might be Alan."

A breathy whine. "Oh, dear. Oh, no."

Colby had played a hand or two of poker in his life. "Well since you've got him up there, how's Alan? I mean, fair, I know, but he had a surgical procedure?"

"Y-yes," she sniffed. "The ambulances carry special cardiac diagnostic equipment now. It looks like he was in angioplasty within 90 minutes of the initial 9-1-1 call. I see that he had two stents placed."

_Thank-you very much. Shall we go for two?_ "How about Charlie? Charles Eppes, he was involved in the same…incident. The last I heard he was on his way to CT."

Colby heard several more sniffs and an occasional tap. "Oh, man, please don't report this to my supervisor. I'm on probation already."

_No wonder_, thought Colby. Aloud, he prodded again. "Charlie?"

"Also fair condition," she finally reported. "He has been admitted to 3014. Would you like me to connect…oh, sorry. I guess he can't talk on the phone."

Okay, he must still be unconscious; but at least Colby had a room number. That was more than he had five minutes ago. "Now how about Don?" he inquired.

"Just a…" -- tap – sniff – tap, tap – "Oh, here. Yes, I see that your name is listed here as the Health Care Rep, Mr. Granger. Mr. Eppes is still in surgery. I'm afraid that's all the information I have."

Colby almost asked her if she could find Amita for him, she'd been doing so well at everything else; but he stopped himself, thanked her and disconnected. He stood and pocketed both cell phones, turning them off first, and wandered into the main corridor of the hospital, headed back for the waiting area.

They couldn't get much information out of the hospital regarding Alan, but that didn't mean they couldn't visit him. He could send someone to the CCU to wait until Alan was out of recovery. Plus, he had just the woman for the job. He squared his shoulders and smiled.

Mildred Finch was about to get her first F.B.I. assignment.

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Amita sat at a sidewalk table outside a coffee shop somewhere in L.A. – she wasn't even sure where – and watched another voice message pop up on her cell phone screen.

She sipped her latte and ignored it, like she had all the others.

She couldn't do this anymore.

Something terrible and unimaginable had happened to all three Eppes men. Almost certainly, it was related to the dangerous aspect of Don's job. Even Mark Danielson, the last terrible thing that happened to Charlie, had been connected to Don, in a way. In the few years she had been trying to build a relationship with Charlie, he had been in the middle of a bullpen full of flying bullets; chased down a hospital corridor in the middle of the night, targeted for death; run off the road and shot at; kidnapped, tortured and brainwashed; and now whatever mess Don had gotten him into this morning. As long as he worked with Don, he would be vulnerable. And she knew he would work with Don as long as he could.

He loved the work. The excitement of it – both on a gut level, and on an intellectual level. Most impossible to fight was the fact that he loved his brother. Amita knew that if she delivered an ultimatum, she could probably force Charlie to quit. She also knew that she might as well cut off one of his arms. The man she ended up with in the end would not be the Charlie she loved.

Yes, she loved him.

Maybe…maybe even enough to let him go.

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End, Chapter 16


	17. Levels of Consciousness

**Title: ****GTB, Part II: Ramifications**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Gobbeldy. Gook. Blah. Blah. Blah. What she said.**

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**Chapter 17: Levels of Consciousness**

Alan's first coherent thought shot out of his mouth before his eyes opened. "Charlie."

A soft hand brushed at the tight curls that framed his face – hair that would look just like his youngest son's, if he allowed it. "Shh, Alan. It's all-right, now."

His eyes finally caught up with his voice and he blinked blearily at Millie, finding her smile both slightly inappropriate and immeasurably reassuring. The corner of his own mouth lifted slightly. "Millie?"

Her smile widened as she straightened at the bedside, trailing one last caress along his stubbled cheek. "At your service," she answered lightly. She shook her head in mild admonishment. "Honestly, Alan; a heart attack? That's so…soap opera." She took a styrofoam cup from the bedside table and offered him a drink, which he greedily accepted.

When he was finished, he teased back; in the back of his mind he was amazed himself. "My repertoire is somewhat limited, perhaps. It worked, didn't it?" His eyes suddenly clouded with fear as he realized that neither of his sons was in the room with him. "Oh, God," he whispered, paling. He moved restlessly in the bed. "Didn't it?"

Millie laid a soothing hand on his arm, just above the entrance of the IV. "Be still, Alan. You've just had all manner of things ballooning through your arteries, and we don't want your war wounds opening back up. The boys are here – both of them."

He blinked at her for a few moments, then sighed and closed his eyes. He breathed deeply, steeling himself. He knew he could trust Millie. She had been a good friend; and besides, she was not the type to wear rose-colored glasses – nor to offer them to anyone else. He had learned early in their relationship to be careful what he asked the woman, for she was sure to tell him exactly how she saw things. When he opened his eyes again they were dark with bottomless emotion, yet determined and steady on her own. "Tell me."

Millie tilted her head. "You first. What do you remember?"

Alan's eyes roamed toward the ceiling as he thought. "Amita called. From our conversation, it was apparent Charlie had not spent the weekend with her, as I had been led to believe. I tried to call Don at work, and Colby answered his phone – he said Don was sick, and hadn't been able to work for two days." He looked back at Millie. "Naturally, I was concerned."

She smirked slightly. "Not to mention suspicious."

His own mouth twitched. "Yes. There was that. Anyway, I decided to go over to Don's apartment and find out for myself what was going on. As soon as I got off the elevator, I could hear them shouting. I…I couldn't really make out words, but I recognized…recognized their voices."

Millie sensed that Alan was beginning to tire. "Do you need to rest? We can finish this later."

Alan shook his head. "I feel surprisingly…good, considering. What did they do to me, exactly?"

"Primary percutaneous coronary intervention," she responded. "Strange – I just saw an article on this in the _Times_ not two days ago. In several areas around the country – including Los Angeles and Orange counties – ambulances now carry special diagnostic equipment that sends information on a cardiac patient's condition directly to the receiving hospital. When the patient arrives, he doesn't waste time in the ER getting tests and blood work; he is taken directly into emergency angioplasty if one has been indicated. The goal is to offer definitive treatment within 90 minutes of a patient's arrival at the hospital."

Alan digested that for a moment. "Huh," he finally huffed. "That explains why the last thing I knew, someone had a vice grip on my chest; but when I woke up, my leg hurt." Millie looked momentarily confused. "Don't they go in through the…" – he blushed, feeling suddenly silly – "…upper thigh?"

Comprehension dawned. "Oh. The groin. Yes. The groin."

Alan's blush grew deeper. "Stop saying that. Let's get back to the story. I knocked, but they must not have heard me over the shouting, so I used my key and walked right in."

He paled again, even more dramatically, and Millie touched his arm, concerned. "Are you all-right? Should I get a doctor?"

He shook his head. "There were guns," he said dully. "Donny was at the edge of the kitchen, and Charlie was in the vestibule…he made…he…." Alan closed his eyes again, refusing to look at her. "That wasn't Charlie. He didn't speak like my son. He didn't act like my son." He opened his eyes again. "It's something…leftover…from that Mark Danielson, isn't it?"

Millie nodded. "I think so," she agreed, unwilling to speculate any further than she had to. "Colby talked to William Bradford; he's flying back as soon as possible. We'll all know more once he's seen Charlie."

Alan allowed a brief expression of relief before he pressed for more information. "Colby. Why Colby? Where's Don?"

This was the hard part. Millie stalled for time, dragging a visitor's chair into position beside the bed. She took her time sitting down, but when she glanced at Alan again he was still staring right back at her, and beginning to move restlessly in the bed again. "All-right," she started. "I'll tell you, but you have to promise to stop that. You'll be well enough to go home in three or four days, but right now it's important that you not move your le…_groin_." She emphasized the last word, and as expected, Alan reddened and looked away. She smiled and continued in a matter-of-fact delivery. "You mentioned that there were guns. As is often the case when there are guns, people were shot."

Alan looked back at her, expression full of fear. "People? Both of them?"

Millie reached over the rail of the bed to return a calming hand to his arm, leaving it there for the time being. "Yes," she confirmed. "Charlie's wound is not serious; the bullet was removed in the ER and there is no nerve involvement."

Alan interrupted. "Which means the oppsite, for Donny?"

She rubbed his arm slowly and confirmed again. "Don's in recovery right how. He had some microsurgery to repair the radial nerve; he was hit in the upper arm. The brachial artery was nicked, but has been successfully repaired."

Alan, not a stupid man even when only a few hours out of surgery himself, did the math. "He could have bled to death."

Millie actually smiled. "You know, I've heard him complain about his nosy neighbors on more than one occasion – but I have the feeling he's about to change his tune. Both of you received some life-saving first aid from people willing to stick their noses into someone else's business."

Alan's eyes wandered toward the ceiling again. "When can I move around; get out of bed?" he asked. "I want to go see my sons."

Millie patted his arm before withdrawing her hand through the bed's rails. "I suppose that depends on how well you follow directions," she threatened. "I believe the plan is to have you walking around by tomorrow morning. Of course, by that time, Don will be up and at 'em himself; maybe you two can meet somewhere in the middle."

Alan frowned. "What about Charlie? If the wound was not that serious, why isn't he here? Is he with Don?" Abject terror glinted from his eyes. "Or…my God, is that Danielson still in charge?"

Millie returned his gaze solidly. "We don't know. Apparently when Charlie was shot he fell and hit his head on Don's telephone table; he's been unconscious ever since." Alan's eyes widened but he did not say anything, so she went on. "Larry talked to his doctor, who said there was evidence of a small subdermal hematoma on the CT scan. So they did an MRI to determine how bad it was, and frankly, the man is a little confused."

Alan lifted an eyebrow. "What?"

Millie shrugged. "He says that it's virtually as small as it can get and still be detected. All indications are that the bleed is already healing itself; he feels that Charlie should have been conscious long before now."

Alan remembered the last time Charlie's body had been conscious. He had forced his own father onto his knees at gunpoint after handcuffing his brother and putting him through all kinds of as-yet unknown hell. If Don was shot, Charlie had to be the one who had done it. Even more dire, Alan feared, if _Charlie_ was shot; _Don_ had done it. Don had been forced to choose between his brother and his father.

He closed his eyes again, suddenly more weary than he had ever been in his life. "Maybe it's just as well," he mumbled.

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He wanted to lift one of his hands, to bat away the pesky female mosquito who kept buzzing around his ear telling him to wake up, but there was a problem. Every time he moved his left arm, someone pushed it down again; his right arm just wasn't responding to commands. He moaned, and cracked open his eyes into slits, trying to track down the enemy.

"That's is, Mr. Eppes. Show me those beautiful brown eyes."

Either the mosquito had morphed into a woman, or the annoying buzz had been coming from her all along. "Mmmphf." Great. His voice wasn't working any better than his arm.

He opened his eyes again, not having realized that he had closed them, when a blessedly-cool ice chip was spooned into his mouth. He sucked greedily, and it disappeared much too soon. He opened his mouth like a baby bird, hoping for another. Don's body language did not go uninterpreted, and soon another chip slipped past his dry lips. "Not too much, now," warned the former mosquito. "You're in recovery. The surgery went very well; Dr. Reyes will tell you all about that. Can you tell me how you're feeling, Mr. Eppes?"

She was young, and pretty, and even though he was happily seeing Robin, his response was ingrained. "Don," he whispered. "Mr. Eppes is my fath…" His eyes widened, then, and a steady beep droning in the background increased its speed, eventually sounding as one long tone.

A cool hand rested on his forehead for a moment and then reached to adjust his oxygen intake. "Don? What is it? Tell me what's wrong."

Barely coherent in recovery after 4-1/2 hours of microsurgery, Don almost laughed. What's wrong? _What's wrong?_ The better question would probably be 'What's right?'. His brother was gone, disappeared into his own body, more a victim of Mark Danielson than he had ever been. Mark had tried to hurt Alan, had meant to kill their father, and he had forced Don to shoot him in order to stop it. Unfortunately, since Mark was living in Charlie's body at the moment, that meant Don had to shoot Charlie. He had to draw a bead on his own brother, and squeeze the trigger. His memories were muddled, but Don already understood enough to remember he had been shot also; but Charlie…Mark hadn't even been aiming in his direction, so something had happened to change the trajectory of the bullet intended for Alan. Don at once thanked God and felt sick. His wound had been an accident; Charlie? Don had aimed dead for him.

And his father. Kneeling in the execution position, clutching at his heart and turning grey. Had the heart attack been real? Was he dead after all? Was the entire family torn apart? "D – dad…." He heard a sob in his own voice and realized he was crying, but he didn't care. He _should_ be crying.

The nurse tried to calm him. "Your father is recovering well, Don; please try to relax. Take a few deep breaths."

Don felt relief wash over him, with an immediate guilt chaser. It was all well and good, to be happy that he still had his father. What did Charlie have? A .22 slug courtesy of his own brother and so much unresolved misery he had turned into the very person who had caused it in the first place. "I'm sorry," moaned Don, the heart monitor speeding up again. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to go back to wherever he'd been – that place where he knew nothing. "Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God…"

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He lay flat on his back, and refused to feel.

When he had emerged in Don's kitchen, holding a butcher knife, he had begun to understand. He, Charlie, may have been losing time – but someone else was living for him, using and dressing his body. Cutting him, leaving him on park benches and putting him on buses was no longer enough. Whoever it was, wanted more. Whoever it was, was in charge for longer and longer periods of time, doing things more and more disturbing.

Charlie was standing in the background, watching, screaming, when Don was handcuffed to his own refrigerator. By the time his father was forced to his knees in the hallway of the apartment, Charlie knew who it was. No-one hated all of them more than Mark Danielson. Mark was back, and he was taking everything he could.

Charlie began to fight even harder. He was railing at Mark from one side while Alan was coming at him from the other, and for a moment…God, for a moment, Charlie had almost won. He had almost subdued the subduer. Then Mark had muscled forward again and forced Alan onto the floor. Charlie saw what he was doing; he saw the look of terror on Don's face; and he pushed, harder than he ever had before. When he saw Alan lose color and clutch at his heart, Charlie had screamed, his shout sounding as a strangled, whispered 'Dad' as he emerged and took control from Mark once more. He had reached for Alan. He remembered reaching for Alan.

And then Don shot him.

Even now, he could feel Mark pacing restlessly at the door, fuming to get out. Charlie could not allow that. Mark on the outside could only spell trouble for Charlie's father, and his brother. He hoped they were all-right. He tried not to be distracted by his worry for them; none of them could afford for him to let that drain his strength.

He lay flat on his back, and fought as hard as he could.

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End, Chapter 17


	18. Conversations

**Title: ****GTB, Part II: Ramifications**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: I own a Nordic Track, and it works: I drape my jeans over it at night, and they get smaller.**

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**Chapter 18: Conversations**

Larry sighed, sinking into the back seat of the taxi and squinting into the setting sun that glared through the windshield. "_Mi corozon_," he murmured, taking Megan's hand in his own, "I've been thinking. It's a wonderful idea, but I fear it will be too much for you to accomplish in such a short time. Alan and Don – and perhaps Charles, as well – will likely be returning to the house on Thursday."

She smiled and snuggled as close to the professor as their seatbelts would allow. "I love it when you call me that," she confessed, almost purring before she responded to his thoughts. "I'm on a flight back to D.C. Thursday morning," she reminded him, a bit sadly. "I just wish I could stay, and do more."

Larry nodded solemnly. "My point exactly, dearest. Perhaps we should call a housekeeping service in the morning?"

Megan seemed to consider it for a moment, but then shook her head. "I don't think so; there's a lot to do, to make sure the house is ready, but I think we can handle it." She tugged on his hand. "Although you must promise me that if it's too much for you to maintain, you'll call someone to come in and help. Especially the first week or so."

Larry drew her hand to his lips and kissed it gently, then let both of their hands drop to the seat between them. "I will." His expression took on a faint look of worry. "Yet I am apprehensive by your use of the word 'we'. I shall be at the hospital a great deal tomorrow and Wednesday, I would suppose."

Megan let go of his hand long enough to tuck a long strand of hair behind her ear. Then she took his hand again and drew it into her lap, covering it with her other hand. "You remember when I went to the cafeteria this afternoon for some coffee?"

Larry's eyes narrowed. The nervous hair behind-the-ear tuck, the kidnapped hand – it was all just a tad suspicious. "Quite," he murmured. "As I recall, you failed to bring me the tea I requested."

Megan giggled and leaned impulsively to kiss him. "I apologize," she answered a little breathlessly as she pulled back. "Does that make up for my transgression?"

He tried very hard not to smile. "It's a start."

The cab took a corner a little faster than necessary and Megan was whipped back by her seatbelt. As the vehicle straightened again she raised an eyebrow at Larry. "Apparently there is a higher power who feels that further discussion of the terms of payment would best be left to another time."

He laughed, squeezing her hand again. "It's just as well," he said. "It was quite remarkable of Alan to pull himself together so quickly and offer to let us stay in the house. I'm not sure I would feel comfortable…frolicking, there."

"Frolicking," mused Megan, contemplating the verb. "Well, as much as I would like to argue with you, I'm not sure I would either. It's not just the thought of it being Alan's house; it's all of them. Charlie…and Don is there a lot…it almost sounds like some weird off-broadway play."

Larry's smile deepened. "The coffee?" he reminded her, still waiting for the rest of the story.

She started, and looked a little guilty. It wasn't an expression she wore often, and it concerned him. "I checked my voice mail while I was in the cafeteria. Amita called me."

Larry let go of her hand, extricated his own from the pile of hands in her lap, and raised it to tug on his ear. "That's…quite interesting," he said at last. "You did not feel the need to share this information with any of the people present?"

Sadness began to cloud Megan's face. "She asked me not to," she answered. "But she's coming to the house in the morning, to help." She waited for Larry to respond. "It will be a good chance for the two of us to talk," she continued at length, when he didn't. "The work will distract us; things like laundry and making up beds. I think that will make it easier."

He turned his head slightly to gaze out the passenger window. His hands both lay idle in his own lap, now. "I'm sure you're right," he said. He turned his head again slightly, letting his gaze drop to the hands in his lap. "It's…quite disturbing. They are both good friends of mine, and no-one can accuse either of them of not trying."

"That's true," Megan agreed. "There has been much to overcome."

Larry shook himself slightly, and smiled tenderly as he reached for Megan again. "I was also thinking," he said, "we can look up some information online tonight regarding a heart-healthy diet. We should stock the kitchen with things that Alan can eat."

"Way ahead of you," Megan answered, fanning a sheaf of papers in his face. "One of the nurses in CCU gave me some nutrition guidelines. There are even some recipes in here. I thought you and I could inventory what's available in the kitchen tonight, and maybe place an online order for a delivery from the grocery tomorrow. Amita and I can cook up a few things – replace whatever decadence is in the freezer with some more appropriate choices." She was thinking as she spoke. "Of course we'll need to leave the refrigerator full of fresh vegetables, and get some fruit…yogurt…I'll make a list."

Larry smiled. "And I shall check it twice, my dear. I shall also determine if you are 'naughty', or 'nice'."

Megan blushed, glancing at the back of the taxi driver's head, then back at Larry. "In Alan Eppes' home," she admonished primly, "I am always nice."

"Just as well," he winked. "I believe they have security cameras."

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He took a cab directly from the airport to UCLA Medical Center. Because he was a doctor providing ongoing treatment to the patient Charles Eppes, the attending had left instructions that Bradford should be admitted to Charlie's room whenever he arrived. There had been a delay in Salt Lake City, so it was good that he had; it was nearly three in the morning before Dr. William Bradford stood at the nurse's desk outside of Charlie's room and read his chart. He perused various tests and results, thanked the ward clerk quietly and strode down the hall toward Charlie.

Charlie's head injury had not necessitated his admittance to the neuro wing, so instead he was in an observation room on the secure psych ward. The rooms themselves were not locked, and Bradford pushed open the door quietly. He stood in the doorway for awhile and observed, distaste growing within him. UCLA's psychiatric unit consisted of two wings with ten rooms each; only a few of those rooms were private, and they were often reserved for the very rich, and the very famous. Therefore, Charlie had a roommate. Bradford suspected that whatever the older gentleman was in for, he was currently medicated to the gills -- he could see that the poor man, who was muttering continually in his sleep, was restrained to his bed with wristbands. From somewhere down the hall a plaintive wail wafted through the night. During his trek to Charlie's room, Dr. Bradford had passed several security guards, some nurses, and a small commons area where a young lady sat on a plastic couch, pulling at her hair and banging into the back of the seat over and over.

He shuddered and let the door shut behind him, letting his gaze rest on Charlie. What the hell had he done, putting him here? There was no curtain dividing the beds -- Bradford supposed it could somehow be dangerous to someone who was self-destructive -- but he wasn't too concerned about disturbing the other man in the room. He was clearly beyond disturbed already. Bill intended to talk to the psychiatric attending as soon as he could in the morning -- he had to get Charlie out of this place. Usually, if a patient reached this stage in his treatment, Bradford turned the patient over to the pharmacologically-enriched psychiatric community. Sometimes, he would work with a psychiatrist in a patient's treatment, once he was stablized, but he seldom found himself in the position he was in now. Given his geographical distance and the information available to him at the time, Bradford had been unable to think of a better way to keep Charlie safe, when Colby had called. It was clear that at least short-term drug therapy was indicated; but this would be a patient in whose care he was intimately involved all along, Bradford knew. He would work something out with the prescribing psychiatrist; as well as with Colby. Together they would find a way to provide Charlie the security he needed outside of this...place. But first, Charlie had to wake up.

Bradford approached the bed. He stood at the foot and studied his patient -- his friend. Charlie's curls framed his head on the pillow in wild disarray. A small square of gauze covered the injury he had sustained to the forehead. According to the chart, this injury had not required any stitches, and was in the perfect shape of the letter 'S'; Charlie had branded himself, and now carried his own scarlet letter. His eyes, obviously, were closed; his brow furrowed between them as if he was in pain -- or concentrating very hard. Occasionally, Bradford detected movement behind the eyelids. Charlie was positioned on his back; as for burial, his hands crossed neatly over his chest -- which rose and fell gently and evenly. Because he was currently unconscious and his roommate was restrained, he was allowed into the psychiatric ward even though he still required artificial hydration. A clear saline fluid dripped innocuously into a port in the back of one hand. Bradford bent and looked a little closer at the hand beneath, and noted that the fingers were tightly curled. He allowed his eyes to travel the length of Charlie's blanket-covered body before he straightened his spine and looked again at the young man's face.

"Charlie," he began, his voice strong, deep and sure; loud enough to be heard over the roommate's mutterings, "it's Bill. Dr. Bradford. I've come to tell you something." His tone took on an almost-hypnotic quality. You know you can trust me, Charlie. You need to understand that everyone is alive. Mark Danielson has done some damage, but your father, and brother -- they are alive, and will survive, Charlie." It was nearly imperceptible, but Bradford was sure he detected increased movement behind Charlie's eyelids. "I need you to understand something else, son. I will help you figure this out. We know, now; we know about Mark, and that knowledge takes away a great deal of his power. He can't hurt you, anymore." Bradford began to pace the length of the bed, heading for the other side. His arms were crossed over his chest and he watched the linoleum beneath his feet. He wanted to apologize for letting Charlie down, but stopped himself. There would be time for that later; this was not about Bill Bradford, right now. "I looked at the chart, Charlie. I've seen the test results. There is no medical reason for you to be trapped in there." He crossed at the foot of the bed and started up the other side, and tried to reconcile what he knew of DID with Charles Eppes. "Perhaps you have a headache, and that frightens you. Maybe you think it's Mark, trying to assert control. But you hit your head, Charlie -- you _should_ have a headache. Your left shoulder probably hurts as well," he added, spying another dressing peeking out from under Charlie's hospital gown. "You...also injured your shoulder." Bradford stopped walking and watched Charlie's face. "You can come out, now. You and I will take care of this." This time Bradford was certain; there was definitely some serious REM going on. "Charlie, I understand that you are afraid. That's not bad. _You're_ not bad. I want to help you. Please come and let me help you." Charlie's head began to move on the pillow, and the furrow between his eyes grew deeper. There were no visitors' chairs in the room, so Bradford carefully lowered the bed's side rail and perched a few inches of his ample behind on the edge of the bed. "I'll wait right here," he promised.

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Settled at last in the hospital's main population, Don lay sleepless in the bed and asked himself why he wasn't more upset.

When Dr. Reyes had told him there was no way to know at this point how much the nerve in his arm would regenerate, he knew that he might never work as a field agent again. In fact, the odds were very good that he would not. He would have to recover virtually everything -- all feeling, all movement -- for that to happen, and Don knew enough about nerve damage to understand how unlikely that was. Best-case scenario, it would still be months before he could get back into the field. Worst-case, he wouldn't even be able to handle a desk re-assignment. Yes, that knowledge should probably matter. But right now, his unresponsive right arm, snug in its sling, was the least of his concerns.

He felt an almost overwhelming relief, instead. When he had come out of recovery, he had been allowed a few minutes with visitors, one-at-a-time. Colby, Larry, Megan and Millie had all sworn to him that they had spent time with Alan, and that he was alive. As heart attacks go, his father had been extremely lucky. He had received the proper treatment almost right away at the scene, and had sailed through an angioplasty already. Millie had teased that she almost had to hold the old man down to keep him from climbing out of bed to find his boys. Don would be able to see his father, touch his father, soon. Robin had been next. Since she had not yet seen Alan, she had promised to take him a message from Don. She had smiled at him with an expression that said she didn't care if he ever worked for the Bureau again, and held his left hand until the nurse made her leave. When Don thought the parade of visitors was over, Colby had snuck back in, and made him cry. He told Don that Bradford was on his way back to help Charlie; the man had not even hesitated, and he had called the hospital and made sure Charlie was moved to a safe place, with appropriate security. His Dad was alive; his brother was alive; Don himself was alive.

Everything else was gravy.

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End, Chapter 18


	19. You Can't Go Home Again

**Title: ****GTB, Part II: Ramifications**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: If I owned it, I would have to pay taxes on it. Yay, me.**

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**Chapter 19: You Can't Go Home Again**

Bill Bradford pushed Don's wheelchair around another corner. "You're sure you're both up to this?" he asked again. "It's still pretty early. The breakfast trays haven't even been picked up, yet."

Don did not swivel his head, but Bradford could feel the glare anyway. "I told you before. You can help, or you can get out of the way. Either. I'm going to see my father."

Don made a half-hearted attempt to steer the wheelchair with his good hand, and Bradford sighed. "Calm the hell down, Agent. I'm pushing, aren't I?"

Don's shoulders slumped. "Yeah."

No further conversation passed between them before they reached Alan's room. Bradford rotated a 180 in the hall and backed through the door, pulling Don's chair after him. He turned again once they were in the room, and was relieved to see a bright-eyed Alan in suspended animation, staring in their direction. "My Lord, Donny, come here," the father demanded, moving gingerly in the bed. "It's been hours since you called."

Bradford was pushing Don closer to the bed, but now lifted both eyebrows. "You two have been talking on the phone?"

Alan shot him a quick look laced with guilt even as he stretched out his hand toward his son. "Just a few times," he hedged. "We couldn't sleep."

Bradford shook his head and smiled, navigating the chair as close to the bed as he could. He lowered the bed rail that separated the two Eppes and stood silent for a moment as Don leaned precariously forward and enveloped his father in an awkward one-armed hug. Alan had to lean into Don's restrained right arm to return the embrace, and he pulled back quickly, surreptitiously wiping at his face. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "Did that hurt?"

Don sat back a little in the chair and grinned at him. "Wouldn't mind if it did, Dad." Alan gazed at the sling morosely, and his son hastened to reassure him. "It's okay. Kind-of a strange thing to be happy about, but it actually hurts a little more today that it did yesterday." He offered as slight left-shoulder shrug. "Unless it's some kind of hysteria; wishful thinking." His eyes tracked Bradford as he pulled a visitor's chair into a position where both Don and Alan could see him. "What d'ya think, Doc?"

Bradford smiled non-committedly. "I think we should wait a few hours and discuss it with Dr. Reyes," he advised sagely. He moved his head slightly to include Alan in his line of sight. "In the meantime, perhaps you'd like to hear about Charlie?"

Alan looked scared to death, but after exchanging a look with Don, he nodded. "Please."

Bradford cleared his throat. "From what you've said, Don, I suspect Dissociative Identity Disorder; what used to be known as MPD. The most famous case, of course, was that of the woman known as 'Sybil'. At least two movies have been filmed about the case, and it is a familiar touchstone for many people."

Alan swallowed, remembering Don's advice in the apartment: _Think 'Sybil', Dad_. The memory actually made him shudder, and Bradford paused. Alan tried to smile at him in encouragement. "Go on. I'm fine."

Bill studied him for a moment and finally decided to take his word for it. "There are really very few similarities between the cases," he continued. "Charlie's DID is almost certainly a by-product of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. As such, it's very treatable, with a combination of drug and behavioral therapies." Bradford grimaced slightly, displeased with himself. "Despite -- or perhaps even _because of_-- our due diligence to Charlie's state of mind after he was kidnapped, he was unable to cope successfully with his ordeal. His sub-conscious created the persona of Mark to help him deal with unresolved issues."

Don looked at him in confusion. "What do you mean, _'because of'_?" he asked. "Are you saying we were wrong to stage the intervention?"

Bradford sighed and shook his head. "No, no...it's difficult to explain. I'm not sure anything should have been done differently. Charlie has...a somewhat delicate constitution. We all know that he has had coping difficulties in the past." Again the Eppes exchanged a look before each dropped his gaze to his lap. "My best guess at this point is that Charlie felt too much pressure, from all sides, to return to 'normalcy', if you will."

Alan risked a glance at the psychologist. "Millie said yesterday that she never meant to push him too hard, about coming back to work. We all thought it would be good for him."

Don lifted his eyes to his father again, and spoke as gently as he could. "You were pretty obvious about wanting his relationship with Amita to get back on track," he observed. When Alan looked horrified, Don sputtered on. "I'm as guilty as everyone else. I jabbed him sometimes, teased him about getting his act together and returning to consulting."

"We also have to remember that his long-time support system has been a bit lopsided," Bradford said in an attempt to rein in the palpable guilt in the room. "Larry has been very good about staying in touch and making several trips back here to see him; but in the end, Charlie's dearest friend is no longer available to him at the drop of a hat. As for his friendship with Amita, that has probably been more of a minefield than a comfort, lately." He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "And let's not absolve me from part of the blame, as long as we're passing it around. It was my job to help Charlie through this, and I broke the cardinal rule." He smiled bitterly at Don. "You know a cop doesn't investigate crimes involving his own family, or close friends -- and a doctor has no business treating such, either. I can only assume that it became more important for me to see what I wanted to see than it did to be alert to all the signs. I will certainly understand if you want to look elsewhere for Charlie's future treatment. I will cooperate fully with any therapist you choose."

In the brief silence that followed this statement, Don could see Alan's head shaking. "I can't speak for Dad," he answered, looking Bradford in the eye, "but I don't want you out of the picture. Maybe Charlie should see someone else in addition to you -- that's your call -- but...Bill, people make mistakes. Even doctors. For my part, I want someone taking care of Charlie whose mistakes are motivated by his _fondness_ for him."

Alan was nodding now, vigorously. "Absolutely," he agreed. "I feel the same way."

Bradford smiled at them both almost mistily. He couldn't help comparing this family, and their acceptance of him, to his own, and their rejection. Yes, people made mistakes; it was obvious that he had made some serious ones, as a younger man. If he was capable of establishing such caring relationships now, however, there might be hope for him yet. "I appreciate that," he said sincerely. He stood, and shoved his hands in the front pockets of his Docker's®. "Charlie regained consciousness about four this morning."

Both Eppes smiled widely. "Thank God," Alan breathed.

"This is HUGE!" gushed Don, but Bradford's expression soon stopped them both.

"I talked to him for around an hour first. I can't be sure how much he heard, but I think from the REM and other physical signs, most of it. When he finally opened his eyes, he looked at me silently for a long time. I thought perhaps he needed some water, so I offered him a drink. He took a sip, and then he made a little speech. I know this sounds...strange, since he's been unconscious, but it sounded as if he's been working on it for awhile."

Dread was pulling at Alan's features. "What?"

Bill took his hands from his pockets and crossed his arms over his chest. "Understand, this is not necessarily bad news. You remember, I mentioned unresolved issues. As long as Charlie does not face those issues, he will need Mark to do his dirty work for him."

Although not as quick with the numbers as his brother, Don could put two and two together. "Mark wanted to kill us and go off and live an isolated life in the mountains somewhere. Are you saying Charlie wants that, too?"

Bradford began to rock a little on his feet. "No. Mark was...is...an extreme solution to Charlie's perceived problems. I don't believe he wants any of you physically dead -- but he may want existing relationships buried. I believe he is at odds with his accepted position in this family. He no longer wants to be the Great White Hope; his genius serving as the family's main source of pride. He is tired of being seen as the subservient 'little brother', often subjecting his needs and desires to Don's in an attempt to somehow 'make up for' an atypical and difficult childhood; a childhood that was no more his doing than anyone else's. He has been told so many times that he must mate and reproduce that he has very little grasp on what he, personally, seeks in a woman. These were all things that the real Mark Danielson may have tapped into, during the month he held Charlie captive. Perhaps he lucked into the information as he brainwashed Charlie; perhaps he did a significant amount of research prior to the kidnapping."

Don was torn between rising in objection, storming through the hospital until he found his brother, and crying. He was still struggling to make a choice when Alan spoke softly. "He said those things?"

"Never in so many words," Bradford countered. At this point, my theories are certainly not carved in stone."

Don interrupted, hating the sullen tone to his own voice. "Then what _did_ he say? You said he made a speech."

The doctor looked him in the eye for a moment, and then looked to Alan. "He said he didn't want to see you," he answered. "Not here in the hospital; and he does not want to return to the house when he is released." At the shocked look on Alan's face, Bradford offered a carrot. "Some of that is guilt. He feels that the two of you are here because of him." He glanced at Don again, and spoke gently. "He remembers reaching for your father, Don. He was Charlie, then. He remembers being confused to see a gun in his hand when he reached for Alan -- and he remembers being shot. He didn't press for details, but I think he understands that you were somehow wounded in the exchange as well. At any rate, he knows that you are both patients here, and he is assuming responsibility for that."

Don hung his head and took a few deep breaths, afraid for a moment that he was going to pass out and fall out of the chair. Charlie was _Charlie_, when Don shot him. Charlie knew that Don picked their father over him, and now Charlie didn't even want to see either of them. Maybe he never would again.

Bradford's quiet voice intruded on his dark thoughts. "I spoke to the psychiatric attending, Dr. Avril, while Charlie and his roommate were being served breakfast. Now that he is conscious, there is really no medical reason for him to stay in the hospital, other than the 72-hour hold I requested. If the hospitalist agrees after his exam later this morning, Dr. Avril has agreed to lift the hold and release Charlie into my custody. Charlie seems to trust me right now, and my hope is that he will be amenable to staying with me. I'm still on vacation for the better part of a month; I feel we could have some very productive sessions in an informal setting during that time."

This time Alan looked ready to cry. "He really won't see us at all?"

"I'm sorry," Bill said sincerely.

Don muttered miserably. "That makes three of us."

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Megan juggled a low-salt stew in the crock pot, a low-fat minestrone soup simmering on the stove, and a low-cholesterol tuna noodle casserole in the oven. She would give everything a stir, ferret out Alan's freezer-to-microwave storage containers, and have time to zip upstairs with some freshly-laundered sheets for Alan's bed.

Amita was standing over the kitchen table folding the sheets and the rest of the third load of laundry. She had been quiet and efficient all morning, and Megan was beginning to wonder if her little plan was ever going to work.

"I'm not sure what to do," Amita suddenly confessed, and Megan turned away from the stove to see her friend contemplating a fitted bottom sheet.

"Don't worry about folding that," she instructed. "I'm just going to put it back on the bed soon, anyway."

Amita obediently dropped the material into the basket sitting on top of the table, reaching into the pile heaped beside it to grab a towel. "That's not what I mean," she answered quietly. "I mean, I'm not sure what to do about Charlie."

Megan turned to lower the heat under the soup and turn off the oven. It was about-damn-time. "Well," she suggested, turning around again, "I suppose that depends a great deal upon what _you_ want." Amita just looked at her, so Megan explained. "When I decided to take the offer in D.C., for instance, Larry had to decide if he wanted to see me every day worse than he wanted to stay at CalSci. Some of the things you need to discover include whether or not you even want a relationship right now -- with anybody. You're at the start of an exciting and all-consuming career..." -- she grinned -- "...or two! How much time are you willing to take away from that right now? Even if you decide that you would like to be in a relationship, you have to face the fact that Charlie is pretty high-maintenance -- especially now. Do you specifically want to pursue a relationship with him?"

Amita frowned as she placed the folded towel in the basket and grabbed another. "You sound like you already think the answer should be 'no'," she pouted.

Megan shook her honey-blonde head. "Not at all, Amita. Trust me, Larry is high-maintenance too. I'm just giving some examples of questions you need to ask yourself. You can't make the right decision for Charlie unless it is also the right decision for yourself; and it can't be the right decision for you unless you know what you want."

Amita nodded slowly. "I know I want to know him forever," she said. "I know I always want to be close to Charlie."

"That narrows it down," murmured Megan, turning back to the stove to take the casserole out of the oven. "Now you just have to decide _how_ close."

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Exhausted from his conversation with the Eppes, Bill Bradford walked back to psych to find that Charlie was being examined by the hospitalist. Wearily, he headed for the hospital cafeteria. It was still early for lunch, but coffee was always welcome. He practically ran into Millie when she came barrelling out of the cafeteria just as he arrived. She was looking down, having just closed her cell phone, attempting to find a spot for it in an over-stuffed bag, and didn't see him. Bradford sidestepped elegantly, for such a large man. "Dr. Finch. You're here early."

"Oh!" She looked up, clutching the cell phone almost as if it were a weapon. "Dr. Bradford! Please, call me Millie." She glanced back over her shoulder toward the cafeteria. "Alan probably shouldn't have coffee, right? Caffeine." She smiled sheepishly. "I'm just afraid he'll smell it on my breath."

Bradford laughed. "I'm sure he would appreciate some decaf," he suggested. "And it's 'Bill'".

She brightened. "Good idea -- I should have thought of that, but my cell rang and I got all flustered..." She fell in slightly behind him and they approached the barrista together.

"Not bad news, I hope," Bradford said politely. "I think we've all had enough of that, lately."

She smiled grimly. "Quite. Well, not bad news for me, but maybe for poor Scott."

There were several people in line in front of them, and Bradford turned slightly toward Millie. "Scott?"

She nodded, and rolled her eyes. "Scott Reese; he's been asking me out for months, and I finally agreed to go to a play tonight. I'd forgotten all about it until he called to confirm, and I promised to go by the house tonight to help out Megan and pick up some things for Alan." She shook her head. "He's convinced he can talk his way out of here tomorrow; two days after an angio!"

Bradford tried to keep up with her, and was somewhat relieved when they reached the front of the line and ordered their drinks. Several minutes later, he was carrying his own black coffee and Alan's decaf, while Millie slurped at her second latte. They found a small table near the back of the room and sat down.

Millie lowered her paper cup and used a tissue to eradicate the mustache on her upper lip. "Thank-you," she finally managed. "You didn't have to pay."

"It was my pleasure," insisted Bradford. "It _is_ conceivable for Alan to be released tomorrow. It depends on how well he does today."

Millie nodded. "I know; so I really need to go by the house. Anyway, I cancelled on poor Scott. This is the second time – I had an emergency faculty thing the first time."

Bradford sipped at his hot beverage and thought long and hard before he spoke – and then he did it anyway. "I'm sorry. I thought you and Alan were an item."

Millie laughed and spit latte all over Bill's hand. 'Oh, my," she said, grabbing a napkin and attacking his hand with relish. "Excuse me. No, Alan and I are just good friends. The best of friends. When one reaches a certain age, it's nice to have someone else to share things with: a good poker game, say, or a chess re-match. Even a night at the movies. We enjoy each other's company very much."

With some effort, Bill retrieved his hand and pulled it back to lay safely in his lap. He sipped some more coffee. "Of course," he responded. "I don't know where I got the idea that the two of you were dating…"

Millie laughed again and he shrank back, but this time nothing came flying at him. "Oh, we like to tease the boys," she said, "especially Charlie. The whole _'my Dad is dating my boss'_ thing is just too rich…anyway, we keep them guessing." She gulped some more latte, then swallowed and frowned a little. "Have we been wrong to do that? It was all in good fun; neither one of us intended anything….I'm sure if Alan suspected that Charlie was truly upset, he would have told him the truth."

Bill smiled at her over the table. "I don't see anything wrong with some good-natured teasing," he assured her. He cleared his throat, suddenly thankful that it was almost impossible to tell when a black man was blushing. "Frankly, neither do I see the problem if you and Alan _were_ a serious item. You're an intelligent, witty, lovely woman; Don and Charlie would be lucky to have you as a potential stepmother."

Millie's eyes widened and she sat back a little in her chair. "Well, Dr. Bradford," she smiled.

He tilted his head. Too late to come to his senses now. "Dr. Finch," he replied. "I wonder if you would consider spending an evening with me."

Millie licked her upper lip, tired of daintily tissueing off her latte mustache. "I think that could be rather easily arranged," she answered.

Bradford considered dancing a jig, but then shot her a look full of guilt and remorse. "It could be awhile before I have a free evening," he said, and proceeded to share his plans regarding Charlie.

Millie leaned forward with interest, nodding every now and then. "I think that sounds like a good idea," she announced when he was finished. "Where do you intend to take him?" Bradford looked a little taken aback – even Alan had not though to ask that – and she hurried an explanation. "I only ask because I have an idea."

"Well," he mused, "I haven't decided. I'd like to get out of the city, but I'm fairly certain the cabin would be a bad idea."

Millie made a face. "At least tell me you had that room repainted."

Bill couldn't quite believe she was making him laugh in the midst of all this. "Completely redecorated," he assured her.

Millie nodded. "Fine. Here's my idea. I rented a small house on the beach for a month; I didn't even intend to live there full-time, since I still have responsibilities on campus. I was hoping for several three- or four-day weekends. It's a little two-bedroom cottage on a private beach, in Capistrano. We exchange keys. You take the beach house, and when I get a chance to grab some time away, I head up to the cabin." Her eyes glinted as her brain raced. "Alan told me it's gorgeous, and on some seriously beautiful land. He also said it's very large; perhaps I could even take him and Don along, sometime!" She suddenly looked a little uncertain. "If they want to go, of course. It might harbor some bad memories for them, as well."

Bradford just stared at her as if she had grown another head. "I can't let you do that," he finally objected. "A summer beach house with private access…I don't even want to think about what that must have cost you."

She waved a hand in the air. "Pshaw. Money, schmoney. It's a fair trade – and it'll be good for Charlie, won't it?" Her expression became vulnerable, and she leaned forward toward Bradford, almost whispering. "You know, even if he never comes back to CalSci…I love that boy. I'd do 'most anything for that curly little head."

Impulsively, Bill placed a hand on top of hers on the table. "I know the feeling," he commiserated. "It seems to extend to the entire Eppes clan."

She smiled, a trifle embarrassed, but did not attempt to move her hand. "Must be genetic."

Bill Bradford felt more like a schoolboy than he had since…since…well, since he was a schoolboy. He squeezed her hand and winked. "I suppose we'll need to get together at the end of the month -- to exchange keys."

Millie grinned, and winked back. "Did you think Charlie was the only genius around here?"

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End, Chapter 19


	20. Vignettes

**Title: ****GTB, Part II: Ramifications**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: I absolutely insist that any and all individuals who wish to make a monetary contribution to the ownership of the CBS television series "numb3rs", and/or any of its canon characters, direct such financial transactions towards the appropriate recipients: Heuton, Falacci et al. **

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**Chapter 20: Vignettes**

"_How do you know I won't kill you? How do you know I'm not Mark right now?"_

"_I don't. I don't know either of those things."_

"_Then why are you holed-up in an isolated beach house with me?"_

"_Because I choose to trust Charlie."_

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It was almost more than Don could do.

He and his father had both been released from UCLA on Thursday morning, and Don had come back to the Craftsman with Alan. Logistically, it made the most sense. Whether or not either of them liked the idea, the fact was that they each needed help right now; it would be easier on their friends if they were in the same place. Of course, it also went without saying that Don wanted to keep an eye on Alan. He had come very close to losing his father, and he intended to make sure the older man did everything the doctors said he should. Alan needed rest, the correct diet, a proper amount of exercise – and, in a perfect world, something would be done about his stress level. Don had almost laughed when he had heard that; a family with Charlie in it was a family with stress. When that thought crossed his mind, Don had to use some serious will-power to keep from throwing up; he wasn't thinking that _not_ having Charlie in the family would be healthier for him and his father, no matter what it sounded like in his head. He _wasn't_. He had managed to hang onto his breakfast, but he had looked so ill and washed-out, the doctor had insisted on cutting the meeting short and running a new panel of bloodwork on Don.

The bloodwork had been fine, and a day later he was here, in Pasadena. Megan and her minions had done a remarkable job on the house. Every last bit of laundry was washed, dried, folded and put away. All the beds in the house sported fresh linens. Every surface Don could see was either vacuumed, scrubbed, dusted or polished. Two cases of bottled water were stored in the laundry room, the freezer was crammed full of heart-healthy choices, and the refrigerator was full to overflowing with fresh produce, and low-fat dairy. There wasn't even room for the beer Alan always kept there for Don. His son was more than willing to give it up – it could be a penance, perhaps – but Larry had pointed out a cooler next to the water in the laundry room. Several bottles of both water and beer were on ice.

All-in-all, the house probably hadn't been in such good shape since before his mother got sick. Oh, Charlie and Alan had gone through several housekeepers since then – Don thought there was someone coming once-a-week even now – but knowing their friends had accomplished all of this motivated only by love, somehow made it seem…better.

Still, the house was all wrong.

It was difficult to watch Larry trudge to the koi pond every day to feed the fish; Charlie should be doing that. It was painful to pass his brother's room every time Don walked on to his own; Charlie should be there. It was heartbreaking to look up from the paper, or a book, and catch Alan unaware, the expression on his face sad and forlorn; Charlie's light was missing from their father's eyes.

Don was irritated most of the time. He was physically drained by the constant tingling sensations in his arm. He knew that the tingling was good – it indicated nerve regeneration – but there were moments he had to stop himself from taking a chainsaw to his own arm. He was short-tempered with Larry; if Don _had_ to stay in this house, he wanted to be allowed to just fade into the woodwork. Larry was one of many who would not allow that, however. Robin made frequent visits, as did Millie, Colby, David…there was a never-ending stream of well-intentioned people. Now and then, Don fantasized about taking the chainsaw to one of them, as well. He spent so much of his waking time thinking about that chainsaw, he was secretly glad that they didn't actually own one.

He still carried his arm in a sling; not enough sensation had returned as yet to warn him if he accidentally got it caught in something. He would sit on the couch in the evenings, occasionally sighing, toying with his numb fingers with his other hand. He missed Charlie, and the irritation of it was worse than the nerve regeneration.

He missed his brother.

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"_Tell me something positive about Mark."_

"_What? I can't. There was nothing good."_

"_It's true that he was very disturbed; but he was a human, a person. You lived with him for over a month. Surely in all that time you caught a glimmer of something."_

"_Nothing. Never. He hurt me."_

"_Yes, he did. Nothing?"_

"_Fine. He never asked me to balance his checkbook; to perform mathematic gymnastics for him, like some sort of trained circus act. But even that didn't count."_

"_Why not?"_

"_He still didn't see 'Charlie'. He never called me 'Charlie'; he thought I was 'Jeff'." _

"_He must have loved his brother very much. Isn't that a positive trait?"_

"_No. No."_

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Don and Alan had been home a week before Amita showed up. Don never knew if it was pre-arranged or not, but Larry took advantage of her presence, claiming it was time for a trip to the grocery. He left them alone in the house with her.

It was awkward at first, and strained. Alan thanked her politely for her help in getting the house ready for them. He complimented an Indian Basmati dish she had left for them in the refrigerator. "Megan did most of the cooking," Amita had blushed, "but I remembered how much you liked Matur Pulao." She frowned apprehensively. "We tweaked the recipe a bit, to cut down on fat; I hope it was all-right."

"Marvelous," Alan had enthused, warming up a little now that they were discussing something he truly enjoyed – cooking. "I've been checking out the freezer; Megan really went to town. The dear girl must've been exhausted after her vacation!"

Amita dimpled. "Actually, she said the cooking was the best part of the vacation. She rarely has time to cook, and when she does, Larry's tastes are…somewhat limiting."

Alan smiled. "I think she's loosened him up, some. He's had a bite of everything, so far, no matter what color it is." He shot a stern look at Don, who had yet to speak.

Don opened his mouth, and everyone immediately regretted it. He had no idea where it came from, himself. "Why didn't you come to the hospital? Why wouldn't you see Charlie before he left?"

For a moment, Alan looked as if he was going to admonish his son, but then he thought better of it and put in his own two cents. This family was long-overdue in the honesty department. "Amita, I want to apologize. I never intended to pressure the two of you so much. I didn't think. I should have known."

Amita hung her head. "I…understand." She looked up, shrugging a shoulder. "Part of me is even a little…flattered. You wanted to see your son settled, raising a family, and eventually you liked me enough to hope that he did those things with me."

Alan smiled, although he didn't look much happier. "Still, it was none of my business." Again he looked at Don. "Nor is it my business when, with whom, and if _you_ ever settle down, son. I promise, no more hints. No more wistful grandchild remarks."

Don felt oddly disappointed. "Well now, hey. Don't over-react. A guy likes to know his happiness is so important to another person, ya know?"

A spark of the old Alan glinted in his eyes and his smile became more genuine. "So you want it both ways, then?"

Don returned his smile. "Why not?"

Amita watched father and son banter and then stood from her position in Alan's recliner. "I…came to see how you both are," she stammered, blushing again, toeing the carpet. "I also came to say 'good-bye.'"

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"_Tell me what Mark Danielson did to you."_

"_I've told you! Over and over! Weren't you listening?"_

"_It's called 'exposure therapy', Charlie. It's a treatment for PTSD. By talking about the trauma repeatedly, with me, you'll learn to control your thoughts and feelings about it. You will learn that you do not need to fear your memories."_

"_What about the SSRI? I thought the drugs were the treatment."_

"_It all works together, Charlie. We've talked about this before; don't think I don't know you're stalling. Tell me about the cabin."_

"_Th- there was a…sm-smokehouse. Outside. It was small, and concrete, and jerry-rigged with speakers. Noise, there was always noise. No food. Only sips of water – unless I did something that pleased him. Then he would let me have more. Some…sometimes, he would yell; sometimes it was recorded, an endless, endless loop. He said I was worthless. He said they were evil. He said we all deserved to die."_

"_How did that make you feel?"_

"_Feel? How did that make me feel? I hated the son of a bitch."_

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"Aren't you a little old to be running away from your problems?"

This time Alan did hush his eldest. "Don! That's enough!"

Amita squared her shoulders, and looked right at Don, where he still sat on the couch. "It should be obvious, even to you, that this isn't working for Charlie. It's too difficult for us to be around each other, right now."

Alan interrupted. "But I promised, no more pressure!"

Amita interrupted right back. "It's not just you, Alan. Even if we could persuade all of our friends and family to back off – we put pressure on ourselves. Neither one of us knows how to…how to fail, or even how to take our time at succeeding. Since the kidnapping, I've probably unintentionally pressured Charlie more than anybody. Anybody except Charlie himself, that is."

"So the working theory is 'out of sight, out of mind'?" Don didn't know why Amita's decision made him so angry, but it did, and his tone was sarcastic.

She refused to be baited. "I think that's an over-simplification, but yes." She looked at Alan, again. "It's only for a year. A faculty exchange program between CalSci and MIT."

His eyes narrowed. "Millie must know about this. She must have helped."

Amita crossed to the end of the couch, where Alan was sitting, and kneeled on the floor in front of him. "It wasn't her story to tell," she said gently. "She respected my wishes to come and talk to you myself."

Don stood awkwardly from the other end of the couch, and towered over the kneeling girl. "Do you intend to do Charlie the same favor?" he barked. "You're embarrassed," he accused, "by the whole MPD, or DID, or whatever the hell it is!"

She pushed up on her knees until she reached her full height, just a few inches shorter than Don. "I will always love your brother," she argued, dark eyes boring into dark eyes. "I am doing this _for_ Charlie; so he can come home again, and not worry about this – at least for a while."

Alan stood, because everyone else was, and because he needed to spend some time at the koi pond -- where he felt closest to Charlie. He leaned and brushed Amita's cheek with his lips. "Please at least call again, before you leave." He turned to Don, his displeasure and disappointment in his son clear upon his face. "It doesn't sound to me like_ she_ is the one embarrassed, son."

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"_Let me talk to Mark."_

"_What?! Are you kidding?"_

"_I would like to talk to Mark, and ask him some questions."_

"_No! What if he doesn't let me come back? What if he just guts you like a fish and takes off? No! No!"_

"_You understand, Charlie, that he is not real. 'He' cannot force you to do anything, anymore, for 'he' is part of 'you'."_

"_You're confusing me. If you really believe that, why do you want to talk to him?"_

"_I want to ask him something, Charlie. You can listen. I want you to listen to the question, and his answer."_

"_You'll get me back? Even if you have to tackle me, you won't let me leave?"_

"_I promise."_

"_Then what the hell do you want to know that's so all-fired important? I'm a very busy man."_

"_Mark?"_

"_Yeah?"_

"_Why does Charlie need you?"_

"_Doesn't. He's expendable. I just need a body to get around in, for a while."_

"_But we both know that you are not really Mark Danielson. Mark Danielson is dead. Why did Charlie's sub-conscious create you?"_

"_Friggin' wuss. Spineless piece of shit killed me. __He killed me__; least he can do now is give me a voice, a place to live."_

"_So you were motivated by Charlie's guilt, at having taken your life?"_

"_Whatever. He deserves this; all of it. Deserves to lose everyone he ever loved. __He deserves to be punished__."_

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End, Chapter 20


	21. The Kiln

**Title: ****GTB, Part II: Ramifications**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: I own a medium pizza, but it's a temporary situation at best. **

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**Chapter 21: The Kiln**

Colby sipped at his soda – he would have come close to homicide for a cold beer, but he could have one later, at home; no sense in being a tease in front of a guy who was currently non-alcoholic – and regarded Don over the rim of the glass. His friend was spearing a chunk of meatloaf on his fork as if he wanted to kill it before he ate it. He popped it into his mouth and chewed, a slight expression of displeasure crossing his features. Colby sat his glass down on the table and picked up his own fork in one hand, his steak knife in the other. He began sawing at his t-bone. "So," he asked conversationally, "how is it?" Don's was full of surprises, tonight. The call begging Colby to come and take him to dinner wasn't all that unexpected – all that low-salt, low-fat, low-taste food was probably getting to him by now – but his choice of restaurant was a little strange. The small Mom-and-Pop diner was just a few miles from the Craftsman, but did not offer the…quality…of fare any of them appreciated. For example, Colby doubted that he would be able to successfully dismember his steak without a blowtorch.

"Sucks," Don answered, letting his fork clatter to his plate and washing the bite down with a gulp of water. "I hate meatloaf."

Colby stopped sawing, although his tools remained at the ready, and looked at Don in disbelief. "Then why did you order it?" He glanced around the sparsely-populated diner in barely-disguised disgust. "What the hell are we doing in here, anyway?"

"Well, I would have preferred _Pie N Burger_," Don replied bitterly, "but a juicy burger dripping with assorted condiments is sort-of a two-handed operation." He indicated Colby's steak with an upwards-tilt of his chin. "Hell, I can't even cut a steak. I figured meatloaf could be conquered with one hand."

Colby reddened, embarrassed that he hadn't thought of that. Well, it had crossed his mind, if truth be told, but he hadn't been sure how to offer to cut his boss's meat. "Yeah," he grunted, eyeing his t-bone again. "Not sure another hand would help you with that."

Don smiled wanly, in spite of himself, but worked on keeping his attitude sour. "I've just been pulling on elastic-waisted sweats since I got out of the hospital," he confided quietly, "but I wanted to wear real clothes tonight. Shit, I had to let Larry button my fly. Do you have any idea how _wrong_ that is?"

Colby shuddered and gave up on his steak, placing his knife carefully on the edge of his plate. With his fork, he began chasing a damaged Brussels sprout across the thick ceramic. "Dude. That borders on TMI."

Don smiled again. "Stop making me laugh. I'm trying to be pissed off, here."

Colby succeeded at his task and brought the skewered vegetable toward his mouth, only to make a horrified face when it got close enough to smell. He hastily set the fork, still loaded, in his plate and looked at Don. "You're still doing an ok job at that. What's up? Bad news from the doc this morning?"

Don gave a one-shouldered shrug, and gazed absently over Colby's shoulder. "No; he was pleased. Wants me to take another week, and then he'll clear me to work mornings at a desk job. I'll have physical therapy five afternoons a week, for a while."

Colby smiled, tentatively. "But that's great news…isn't it?"

Don pulled his eyes, which were now narrowed and contemplative, back to his teammate. "One would think. First thing I did was call Wright, to give him the one-up. I was still in the car; Larry was driving me home."

Colby suddenly wished David had been able to come to dinner with them; YMCA basketball league be damned. He decided if he could dislodge the Brussels sprout from his fork, he might be able to stomach the mashed potatoes. "Hmmm," he hedged.

Don leaned toward him over the table. "Just out of curiousity…what the hell did you guys do?"

Colby had freed his fork, and plopped it into the mound of congealed gravy. "Not at all sure what…"

Don's good hand gripped Colby's wrist. "Wright says I'm on 30 days' paid administrative leave. Something about improper containment of firearms under my control. He said he was certainly very pleased to hear the doctor's optimistic report, and wished me well with my therapy. Said the 'accident' could have been much worse, and he was disappointed in me for not checking to make sure the weapons weren't loaded. He's recommending some basic re-training course offered at the CHP academy."

Colby sighed, and gave up all hope of a meal, decent or otherwise. He slumped back in his chair when Don let go of his wrist. "The reports are pretty clear. You were showing Charlie your weapons; he's been considering applying for a CWP ever since the incident when he was run off the road and shots were fired." He lifted his chin a little in defiance. "That's legit, Don; he mentioned as much to both me and David." Don looked a little stunned and sat back in his own chair. "Anyway," Colby continued, "when your father had a heart attack right in front of you, you were understandably startled and distraught; the weapon you were holding was accidentally discharged. Medical and forensic evidence, as well as witness testimony, suggest that Charlie's gun was discharged as a recoil reaction to his own wound. Wright is correct; a tragic accident, all the way around."

Don sat for a moment, through the waitress's refill of his water glass. When she left he took up the conversation again. "What about LAPD, the first officers on the scene? And how did you explain the handcuffs that the hospital must have had to remove?" He picked up his water glass. "I need to get those back," he mumbled.

Colby grinned smugly, taking a sip of his soda before leaning toward Don and sharing the rest of story, feeling a bit like Paul Harvey. "Dave and I talked to Gary Walker, and the three of us had an informal tete-a-tete with the four officers on the scene. Long story short, if anyone cares to pull their reports and compare them to ours, I think all the conclusions will match." He shook his head. "You lucked out on the cuffs. The officer who administered first aid to you on the scene was offended by them; his partner saw the key glinting on the kitchen floor, and they removed them at the apartment. They were going to bag them as evidence, but when David pulled rank and shut down the LAPD operation, they left everything there for us."

Don was impressed, but not quite ready to let it go. "Four officers – and now Walker, too. We can't contain all of them forever. Colby, this could be the end of a lot of fine careers – yours included."

Colby frowned. "Maybe not. But I think we've got a good chance. One guy was working the perimeter, trying to dig up witnesses; he never even got inside, so his report doesn't reflect on the scene at all. Two of the others are 15-year-plus veterans. This probably isn't the first evidence they've looked at sideways."

Don had to ask. "The fourth?"

Colby tried not to look worried. "A rookie." Don looked worried enough for both of them, so Colby hurried on. "He's the one who found the key to the cuffs; he's a third-generation cop, and did time as an MP in Iraq. About as safe a rookie as we can get, I'm thinking."

Don shifted in his chair and rubbed his hand over his face. "How much does Wright know?"

Colby's ignorance was genuine. "Hell if I know. I doubt that any of us will ever know for sure."

Don nodded. "So that's it, then," he said, a little dully. "I do my admin leave, work my time on the desk, take the CHP course, and hopefully within six or nine months, I'm back in the field."

Colby observed him carefully. "That's not good?"

Don shrugged again. "Yeah. Sure, yeah."

Colby pushed his plate to one side. There was a fly buzzing around the mashed potatoes, and as far as the agent was concerned, he was welcome to them. "What is it?" he asked, not unkindly.

The pink-uniformed geriatric waitress reappeared, leaving a check and picking up their plates in arthritic hands. Don waited for her to shuffle away before he answered. "Amita came over this afternoon."

Colby raised his eyebrows. "That must have been a surprise. She never did return any of our calls."

"She helped Megan with the house," Don said, "but she never came to see any of us, at the hospital."

Colby shook his head in wonder. "Weird. I mean, Charlie aside, I thought she and Alan had gotten pretty close."

Don snickered sarcastically. "Charlie's 'aside', all-right. She's moving to Boston."

Colby's eyes widened. "_Now?_ Before he gets back, I mean? What's she going to do, leave him a 'Dear Charlie' letter?"

Don was looking more and more unhappy. "I don't want to talk about all that."

Colby scratched his head, confused. "You brought it up."

Don sighed. "I know. It's something my dad said, when she was there. I may not have been…hospitable. Accusations may have flown. At any rate, _he_ finally accused _me_ of being embarrassed by Charlie, by his MPD; his illness."

Colby waited a few seconds to answer – and probably should have waited longer. "Well, you have been embarrassed by just about everything else along the way. Maybe that's what he was thinking about."

Don, who had been contemplating the floor, jerked up his head and looked at Colby, truly wounded. "What are you talking about?"

Colby squirmed uncomfortably. "I'm sorry. That came out wrong."

Don's brow furrowed. "Tell me."

Colby wished again for David and hoped his partner's team was losing. At length he shrugged his own shoulder. "It's just some of the stories I've heard – from you, from Charlie, even from Alan – you didn't always enjoy having a genius little brother hanging around. And sometimes, at the office…when he starts one of his long-winded explanations…well, your eyes kind-of roll."

Don sat back, stung. "I just want him to cut to the chase; lives are hanging in the balance. I'm not _embarrassed_ by him; I just want him to hurry up!"

Colby nodded. "I can buy that."

Don wasn't sure. "And when we were kids – well, that's the operative word, Col, _I_ was a kid, too! I'm sure I was impatient, and sometimes jealous….If I was embarrassed, it was only in the way any older sibling is embarrassed. _Nobody_ wants his kid brother hanging around when he's trying to be one of the cool crowd."

Colby looked at the table top in obvious discomfort. "Who are you trying to convince?" When Don did not answer right away, Colby looked up and continued gently. "I'm just saying. Alan has never struck me as a particularly unfair, unobservant guy. When he says something, it should probably be considered."

Don blinked rapidly for a few moments. "Charlie's not an embarrassment," he almost whispered. "I love Charlie. He's my brother."

Colby had nearly reached the end of his use, but he had enough empathy left for one last thought. "He might need to hear that every now and then." Don's blinking increased, and Colby strove to alleviate the awkwardness of the situation. "Just a suggestion. Plus, I have one other."

Don wiped at his face and focused tired eyes on his friend. "What now?"

"Pie," Colby smiled. "Coconut crème, at _Pie N Burger_. You could handle that with one hand, right?"

Don grinned. "Make it banana crème, and you've got a deal."

Colby picked up the check and pushed back his chair to stand. "Just don't eat too much," he admonished. "Larry's not here, and I'll be damned if I'm helping you unbutton your jeans."

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"_Is my family all-right?"_

"_What do you want to know?"_

"_Larry came to see me in the hospital, and he said my dad had a heart attack. An angioplasty. He has things inside him, now."_

"_Yes; they're called 'stents'. His prognosis is very good; he received excellent treatment right away. With proper nutrition and exercise, he has many more years ahead of him."_

"_Don must hate me."_

"_Why do you say that?"_

"_I don't make things any easier, for Dad. I make things more difficult; for everyone. The heart attack is my fault. Don…Don may never work in the field again, and that's my fault. Everything is my fault. I don't blame him for hating me."_

"_After a traumatic event, we sometimes blame ourselves for things that we could not reasonably be expected to change. That's part of PTSD. Stress can make any situation worse, but by itself, stress cannot cause a heart attack. Years of lasagna and high-fat cuts of meat had more to do with that than you did. Alan's heart attack was not your fault. Nor was it your fault that a stray bullet found Don's arm, causing nerve damage. You have told me that you were operating as 'Charlie' then, and never intended to fire at your brother. Perhaps most importantly, it was not your fault that Mark Danielson kidnapped you. You did not deserve the torture he inflicted upon you."_

"_I wasn't strong enough. I couldn't deal with it, and I ended up…doing what I did, for weeks. Months, maybe."_

"_Do you recognize these thoughts for what they are, Charlie? Triggers, that will induce stress and make your symptoms worse. Identify these thoughts, and others that make you feel afraid and upset; learn to replace them with more accurate and less distressing thoughts."_

"_Those are accurate."_

"_No. Your father has told me how much joy you bring to his life; you make him laugh. You play golf with him, even though you hate it, which encourages him to exercise. You don't give your father heart attacks, Charlie, you give him a reason to live."_

"_I'll…I'll do whatever it takes, for either of them. I have money. I can hire specialists. Cardiac specialists, nerve specialists."_

"_Will you work at getting well, yourself? That might be what it takes, if they are both to be made whole, again. Perhaps they need you as much as you need them."_

"_It can never be the same."_

"_It can be better. When a clay pot is dropped, and broken into pieces, it can be repaired. The pieces are glazed back together, and the pot is re-fired. It emerges stronger than it was before."_

"_You can still see the scars."_

"_Sometimes. If you look hard enough. If you are looking that closely, though…you can also see how well the pieces fit."_

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End, Chapter 21


	22. Streaks of Red and Gold

**Title: ****GTB, Part II: Ramifications**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: That pizza is gone, now, so I no longer own that. **

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**Chapter 22: Streaks of Red and Gold**

The partially-submerged log was no doubt supposed to look like a natural deposit of driftwood. Charlie knew, sitting on the north end, that it was more likely the result of man's intervention. It sat low, and inviting; safely out of the way, even during high tide. The porous wood was bleached just a little too white to be natural, and its surface was remarkably smooth, and free of splinters. Manmade or not, though, the log had become one of his favorite places during the time he had spent at the beach house. He could sit here for hours, and especially sought the solitude after a long afternoon of talking with Bill. There was so much talk, and it always left him drained; squeezed-out like a dish cloth. Some evenings he could barely stagger out here to park himself on the log and watch the sun set over the rolling waves.

He had loved the ocean his entire life. It was an odd juxtaposition. The power of the sea was astronomical, the waves pounding steadily in and dragging themselves efficiently back forever; it never, ever, stopped. And yet, the roar that heralded that power was perhaps the most peaceful sensation in the world. Even before Mark, nothing had ever been easy. The constancy and vastness of the ocean helped reduce everything else to its appropriate size. It was harder to hear the numbers, when he walked along the surf's edge in the early morning. It was easier to imagine finding the strength to continue another day, when he sat on the log, and watched the red and gold streaks of the sky sink into a liquid blackness that would resume its brilliant blue in the morning.

Generally, Bill left him to his solitude, when Charlie sought out the ocean. The man's steady _belief_ in him, his simple _trust_ that Charlie would always come back…it was as unchanging and as comforting as the tide. Charlie sighed, closed his eyes for a moment and tilted his head back to feel the last moments of the day's sun on his face. He had not bothered to shave that face since coming to the house with Bill almost three weeks ago, and he smiled a little, imagining his father's reaction. The smile was gone before it was fully developed, however, as the inevitable questions followed his musing. Would his father even want Charlie to come home, next week? Would Alan ever see the beard?

He opened his eyes again, and let them drop to the bright white paper in his hand. Bill had walked to the main road after lunch, to check the mail, and come back bearing this letter, which he handed silently to Charlie. Charlie had pocketed it for later, intending to read it while he watched the sunset. No doubt, it would be a topic of discussion tomorrow; but for now…for this moment, the letter was all his. Although he had already read it so many times he practically had it memorized, Charlie started at the top once more:

_Dear Charlie_, he read,

_I hope that you are well. I am sincere when I say that; and I trust you know that much about me, at least. You have been my dear friend for years, long before we became something else to each other, and your health and happiness will always be important to me._

_Your father and brother are doing well. Alan is tan, and fit. He has retired (again!) from his part-time consulting for Stan, and is concentrating on his health. Of course this involves as much golf as possible, both for exercise and as a relaxation technique. I think you will be a little surprised to learn that he has taken up bicycling, as well. Right now he is using your bike, but plans to get one of his own soon. _

_Don would be more comfortable with this developing habit if he could accompany your father on his rides, I think, but his arm is not yet well-enough healed for that. His doctors and therapists have only good things to say; however, nerve regeneration occurs slowly. Don is enduring his forced inactivity better than expected by anyone – including himself, I believe. He is still staying at the Craftsman. He takes walks with Alan nearly every evening, and Alan tries to schedule his bike rides when Don is away in the afternoons for therapy._

_Larry is still staying at the house as well. Your father insists he is healthy enough now to ferry Don to his appointments, take care of his own laundry and make the occasional trip to the grocery; but Larry feels that the longer Alan can be relieved of such responsibilities, the better. Personally, I think he is just hanging around long enough to see you when you come home to Pasadena next week._

_I, on the other hand, am not that brave._

_After I post this letter, I will swing by the Craftsman one last time for a final 'good-bye' with Alan. I confess I have waited until afternoon; I know Don, who is not exactly my champion these days, will be gone. Millie has arranged for me to take part in a faculty-exchange program with MIT, and I will teach in Boston next year. I will take my time driving there, and then settle in for a few weeks before my duties begin on-campus._

_Charlie, I am doing this because I love you. I know how ridiculous that must sound, but it is true. I regret the pressure I put on you, after your ordeal with Mark Danielson. I'm afraid that I was impatient, wanting you to be "normal" again, needing things to return to the way they were before – and my greatest fear is that I would do that again, if we were at CalSci together. Just as Larry feels that Alan will only grow stronger while someone else is picking up the slack, I believe that without the constant fear of running into each other, and what that may or may not entail – you can focus more clearly on yourself, and heal. I do not want a deadline looming in your subconscious – not even one a full year away. While I have only committed to stay at MIT for a year at this point, the future – for all of us – is yet to be determined. _

_I am writing this letter in part so that you do not fear your return to "civilization". I will be long-gone when you come back, and the pressure of our relationship will be one less thing with which you must contend. I wish you only the best, Charlie. You remain my dear friend, and I write this letter with love._

_Amita_

Charlie carefully folded the letter into a small square and shoved it into a pocket of his windbreaker. The wind at sea-level was strong tonight, stinging his face with sand and leaving fine deposits of the same in his hair. He huddled further into his jacket, head bowed almost to his chest, and took a deep breath.

Then he lifted his face again to the sea.

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Charlie was immediately ill-at-ease two mornings later when he awoke to find the house empty. He thought frantically, trying to remember if something had happened after he had gone to bed the night before. He and Bradford were due to return to Pasadena in just a few days, and Charlie was finding that knowledge stressful; Amita's letter had bumped the stress up a notch. Sessions between himself and the doctor, which had been going very well, were becoming stilted and difficult. Charlie knew that stress and pressure were triggers, and he was terrified that Mark had appeared during the night.

His respirations increased and he skittered back through the house toward the room Bill was occupying, to check again. God in heaven, maybe it wasn't even last night when Charlie had gone to bed; perhaps he was losing time, again! He whimpered a little at the sight of the neatly-made, decidedly-empty bed in Bradford's room. He stood in the hall, bouncing from one foot to the other, running a hand through his hair.

A thought occurred to him, and Charlie turned and raced for the living room. He was almost crying by the time he found the remote for the television and powered up the set. He ran through the channels until he found CNN, and nearly fainted in relief at the date that flashed in the red bar on the bottom of the screen: Tuesday, August 5th. No time gone, then. That was something, anyway.

He drew in a ragged breath, turned off the television and looked toward the kitchen; there was a telephone there – he could call Bill's cell. He bumped into the hide-a-bed couch in his hurry to leave the living room, which scooted a few inches across the wooden floor and rammed into an end table; Charlie caught a white flutter out of the corner of his eye, and stopped to see what had fallen off the table. He spied his own name in Bill's hurried scrawl, and leaned to pick up the scrap of paper. A note. Bradford had left him a note on the table, probably thinking that Charlie would see it when he exited through the sliding glass door to the patio, for his morning walk on the beach.

Charlie's breathing was almost normal and his hands were only shaking a little by the time he read that Bill was picking up something in town and would be back soon. He moved back to the couch and sank onto one end, feeling the fool. He let the note fall to the end table and then scratched nervously at his beard. He tried to relax, taking deep, purposeful breaths. It wasn't as if Bill had never left him here alone at the beach house before. Besides, Millie had rented it for July 9 to August 9; by Saturday, Charlie would be going back to the real world anyway. He needed to get used to not being watched all of the time; to being by himself.

He was concentrating so hard on his pep talk, he missed the sound of Bill's tires when his vehicle hit the driveway. Charlie didn't hear anything before he heard keys jingling in the doorknob. Startled, he jumped off the couch and whirled, backing toward the television. His eyes were wide when Bill stepped into the house, carrying an overnight bag. The doctor regarded him with wary interest. "Charlie? Did you get my note?"

"I could…couldn't find it," Charlie stammered. "I couldn't find you."

Bradford read Charlie's fear and frowned. "I'm sorry. I should have awakened you, but I had to be at the bus station so early." Charlie heard more noise behind Bill and looked quickly at the still-open door. Bradford tracked his gaze. "Charlie, I thought you might want to…face some things a little at a time…" The doctor was looking more and more uncomfortable himself, as if second-guessing something.

"God, it's beautiful here," Charlie heard, and his heart stopped. Even before Don knocked the sand off his tennis shoes on the porch and stepped through the door, Charlie knew it was him.

"Oh, God," he breathed as Don pushed through the door, smiling. The small living room was dwarfed by the three men standing in it, and Charlie began to feel as if he couldn't breathe.

Don glanced at Bradford and then raised a hand in greeting – his other arm, Charlie could see, was still in a sling. "Hey," said Don quietly. "Hope you don't mind."

"Don will spend the next few days with us," Bradford began, but his voice soon became a buzz.

A pain not unlike the sharp stab of a knife cut through Charlie's skull and he grunted in discomfort, raising both hands to his head. His knees buckled and his eyes rolled, and he hit the wooden floor with a thud.

"Shit," exclaimed Don, starting to push past the doctor and get to his brother, but Bradford held him back.

"Let me go first," he insisted.

He had only taken a few steps when Charlie lifted his head and started to push himself up off the floor. "That sniveling little spineless wuss," he growled, glaring at the doctor and Don behind him. "I shoulda known he'd leave me in a situation like this."

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End, Chapter 22


	23. You Want Hash Browns with That?

**Title: ****GTB, Part II: Ramifications**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Every last gray hair on my formerly brown head would be mine; ALLLLLLL MIIIIINNNNEEE! The rest of this? Owned by someone who can no doubt afford Nice n' Easy (which would also be owned by someone else; life is an interesting circle, that way).**

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**Chapter 23: You Want Hash Browns With That?**

Bradford's tone invited no argument. He stood inches in front of Mark and barked authoritatively. "Mark. You are no longer needed here; and you were _never_ welcome. Charlie is more than capable of handling himself; leave, now."

Don sidled up behind the doctor and composed his face. Bradford had tried to prepare him for this; Bill's theory was that Charlie still felt a lot of guilt regarding Don's injury. He was concerned that when that guilt was triggered, it might send Charlie over the edge. So he had called Don and asked him to join them at the beach house, hoping to ease Charlie into his real life a step at a time. Even though Don had been forewarned about what to expect, the transition to Mark had been frightening; Don was not expecting something so immediate, and so violent. He had to draw upon all his acting skills to feign nonchalance as he stood in front of Danielson. "Let me talk to my brother," he asked mildly, refusing to let Charlie's alter-ego see how discombobulated he really was.

"Ain't here," retorted Danielson, his eyes shifting between Bradford and Don. He moistened his dry lips with a darting tongue and then sneered. "He killed me, ya know. No reasonable human being should be able to do a thing like that." He indicated Don's sling with a quick head-tilt. "Tried to kill you, too, Probably ended your career. He's..." Danielson wavered a little where he stood, then steadied. "...horrible," he finished.

Bradford allowed Don to displace him slightly, and took half a step to the side. The F.B.I. agent maintained his cool, his good hand shoved in the front pocket of his jeans, and his voice steady. "You're wrong," he announced loudly, "and everybody in this room knows it. Charlie killed you to save my life. He saved it again, at least once, in my aparment; he pushed you aside, when you got your hands on the butcher knife." Don huffed in obvious derision. "Pretty clear to me who's in charge here, and what motivates him. Charlie loves me. He loves my father -- he dispatched you again, when my Dad needed help." He leaned his face close to Danielson's. "Seems to me _you're_ the spineless piece of shit in this room."

Mark staggered backwards as if he had been slapped, and brought a hand to his head. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed furiously at his forehead. "Shut-up!" he roared. "He shot you! He tried to kill you!"

"He _didn't_," Don countered immediately. "_I_ shot _him_. I drew a bead on him and squeezed the trigger, and I will regret it for the rest of my life. It was my own fault when Charlie's gun discharged." He suddenly pulled his hand out of his pocket and poked Mark right in the chest with a forefinger. "Hell, I saw his commendation from the firing range. If Charlie had been trying to shoot me, asshole, I'd be as dead as you are right now."

Danielson raged, still rubbing at his head. "He pointed the weapon at you!" he winced. "He pulled the..."

Don took a deliberate step back, and continued until he bumped into the couch with the back of his legs. Never taking his eyes off Danielson, he allowed himself to drop casually onto the fabric. "Oh, shut the hell up," he yawned. "No-one here is taking you seriously anyway, ya bag of hot air. You're wasting everybody's time."

Danielson's arms dropped stiffly to his sides and he roared like a wounded animal, lunging a step toward Don before his head suddenly dropped to his chest. He stood for a moment, breathing raggedly, providing Don a slight shock when he saw the gray hairs glistening in Charlie's head. He hadn't realized that either one of them was old enough for that. When the curly head rose again, Charlie's dark eyes blinked at him in confusion, then traveled to rest on Dr. Bradford for a moment before moving back to his brother. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "It was an accident."

Don sprang to his feet and dropped all pretense, understanding that he was dealing with Charlie, now. "I know, Buddy," he answered softly from where he stopped, a few feet in front of Charlie. "I'm even sorrier; I squeezed a round off on purpose."

Charlie tilted his head to one side. "You thought Mark was in charge, and was going to hurt Dad. Even then, you only fired to stop me. You could have done a lot more damage."

Don swallowed thickly. "Trust me; I did enough. To both of us."

Charlie suddenly swayed again, and Bradford reached out a hand to steady him. Charlie sighed, dropping his eyes to the floor. "I'm tired. Can I..." He stopped, and Bradford prodded gently.

"What, Charlie?"

"I want to take my walk, in the surf," Charlie admitted sheepishly, raising miserable eyes to the doctor. "But you can't trust me, anymore."

Bradford smiled, and stepped back further to open a path to the sliding glass door. "I don't see why not," he answered.

Both Don and Charlie looked surprised; Charlie's surprise soon turned to hope, and he began to twitch a little. He wanted to cut between the doctor and his brother to go outside, but Don had not backed off enough to allow him to squeeze through. Bradford arched an eyebrow at the older brother and took another step back. "I'm sure Don will help me with breakfast," he said, looking hard at the agent before he glanced back to Charlie. "How do you want your eggs this morning?"

Charlie blushed, pulling into himself and edging toward the door. "I don't care. Make whatever you want."

Bill began his trek into the kitchen. "See you soon, then."

Don barely waited until Charlie was through the door and off the patio before he strode purposefully into the kitchen and glowered at Bradford. "The hell?" he demanded. "How do you know he'll be all-right out there? What if he doesn't come back?"

Bill withdrew his somewhat formidable bulk from the open refrigerator, clutching a carton of eggs in one hand and a quart of milk in the other. He elbowed the door shut and didn't even spare Don a glance. "Welcome to my world, son. Reach up there and find a mixing bowl, would you? I think I'll scramble, this morning."

Don opened the first cupboard he came to, saw a dozen glasses, and moved on to the next. "What the hell kind of shrink are you, anyway?" he muttered, taking out a plastic bowl and thumping it on the counter. "First you let him wander off, and then you commit the most obvious Freudian slip I've ever witnessed."

This time Bill turned to look at Don. "Agent, your brother is not mentally ill; he's emotionally disturbed. He will not need or qualify for round-the-clock nursing when he returns to Pasadena on Saturday. You'd better damn well learn to trust him." He stopped and regarded the carton of eggs. "Scrambled. I guess that could be misconstrued as a personal comment." He looked vaguely around the room. "How do you feel about cereal?"

The corner of Don's mouth struggled not to turn up into a smile. "There are no demonic toucans or possessed rabbits on the box, are there?"

Bradford rolled his eyes and started to carry the eggs back to the refrigerator. "Please. We finished the Trix® yesterday."

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Charlie was quiet but attentive during morning and afternoon sessions with Bill and Don. Bradford concentrated heavily upon the issue of guilt. He asked Don to speak at length about his own experiences taking the lives of others; something he had been forced to do on more than one occasion as an F.B.I. agent. Don had never been so open in the matter before; Bradford knew that he was 'sucking it up' to help his brother, but he was optimistic that Don would find the conversation helpful as well.

Both brothers were surprised to learn that Bradford himself had killed a man, when he was a patrol officer. "I understand guilt," he shared quietly. The three men were again in the living room of the small house. Don was seated on the couch, Charlie sat cross-legged on the floor, and Bill had risen from the room's recliner to wander to the door to the patio. He stood with his back to the Eppes and watched the ocean in the distance. "I've never shared this with a patient before," he began, and then he smiled and shook his head. "But there's a lot involved in this situation that I haven't done before." He turned from the glass, but stayed standing where he was as he looked intently at Charlie. "I was on the streets for eight years before I packed it in, and went back to school. Travis Davis is one of the main reasons why. After all these years, I remember his name. After all this time, I still think of his parents during the holidays." Charlie swallowed and stared up at him, fascinated. Bradford spread his hands and then crossed his arms over his chest. "There was no other choice. Just as in your own situation, he would have killed someone else, if I had not killed him. I never regretted my action – I had a clear head shot, and I took it, and because I did, I still get Christmas cards from a woman in Colorado who lived to get married and have three children. Was there guilt anyway?" Bradford moved his eyes to Don, and smiled somewhat sadly. "You can bet the ranch on that. Davis chose his own road. He began offending as a juvenile, and he raped that poor girl all night long before my partner and I pulled him over on a routine traffic bust." He moved his eyes back to Charlie. "I was back at the unit, calling in the plates. My partner got that hinky feeling when he looked at the girl, so he pulled his weapon and asked Davis to step out of the car. The gun flew out of his hand when Davis slammed the car door into him and dropped Eddie to the asphalt like a ton of bricks. Davis dragged the girl out of the car by her hair, holding a knife to her throat." He shook his head, almost lost in the memory. "Eddie…balls of steel, that one…he laid on the road without a gun and shouted at the kid to stop. I pulled my weapon and yelled the same thing. Davis kept backing up, pressing the knife harder to the girl's neck…." Bill started to take a step and stopped, seemingly unsure of where he wanted to go. He was staring at his shoes, now, as if watching a video being played on the floor. "When I saw the trickle of blood run down her neck, I fired. Twice." Bradford inhaled deeply and looked back to Charlie, inclining his head slightly. "Both head shots. Wasn't much head left for the second one."

Charlie's voice was such a quiet whisper that Bradford had to lean a little to hear him. "How could you feel guilty about that?"

Bill moved his hands to his hips. "Because that's what we do, Charlie. All of us. We weren't born wired to blow each other's heads off. Late at night, with my hand wrapped around a bottle of Jack, the fact that he asked for it didn't matter to me as much as the look on his mother's face, at the funeral. Damn stupid kid was only 19."

Don shuddered on the couch, and Charlie's attention moved to his brother. His face paled. "Dear God," he said quietly. "That's what it's like for you too, isn't it?"

Don didn't answer and Bradford crossed the few feet to sit on the other end of the couch. "Guilt is a self-imposed punishment, Charlie. Our heads can't make rhyme nor reason out of something like that, so we twist it all around, and claim responsibility that is not ours to claim."

Charlie was still looking at Don. "What do you do?"

"Live to work another shift," Don shrugged. "Drink too much. Sleep with too many women. Screw up every relationship you can. Eventually, play the game, and forgive."

Bradford looked at Don with interest. "That's an interesting perspective – and accurate." He looked back at Charlie. "Your psyche feels responsible, and sometimes it does not matter how many times you, or anyone else, tells it that you were not at fault. Sometimes, you just need to accept that you did the best you could. If that is a form of self-forgiveness, sobeit."

Don shifted a little on the couch, and snuck a look at Bradford. "I was talking about forgiving the asshole who made me shoot him," he confessed.

Bradford's eyes widened, then narrowed. "An extremely perceptive and unique theory," he finally answered. He moved his head to look out the glass door toward the ocean again, and shook his head. "_I_ could end up owing _you_ for therapy."

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This close to the water, the roar of the ocean was loud. It would be difficult to have a conversation. Don told himself that was why he didn't sit on the opposite end of the log, but rather directly next to Charlie.

The younger man started, and jerked his head around to face the older. "What?" he asked, his voice fearful.

Don tried to put him at ease. "Nothing. I just wanted to watch the sunset, and it looked…comfortable, here. Is that okay?"

Charlie's shoulders relaxed a little, and he turned his face toward the water again. "I'm going to miss watching this every night."

Don inhaled the salty sea air, coughing a little on the chunk of sand that came with it. "There's probably a DVD or a video you can buy. Watch it every night on television."

Charlie's mouth quirked. "Somehow I doubt it would be the same."

Don looked at him sideways for a moment and then reached up with his left hand and tugged on his brother's beard. "That's pretty impressive for just over three weeks, bro. Just trim that up and shape it a little, and you'll look…like a professor, instead of one of the students."

Charlie raised his own hand to scratch at his chin. "Itches like hell. Can't wait to shave it off – I just want to see the look on Dad's face, first."

Don smiled, and turned his head to the ocean. "Well, I'm betting he shuts up about you needing a haircut for awhile, anyway."

"Is he…mad at me?" Charlie suddenly asked.

Don redirected his eyes to his brother. "What? Of course not. He misses you. He loves you."

Charlie nodded. "What about you? Are you mad at Amita?"

Don had been expecting Charlie to ask if he was mad at _him_, and he had his answer all ready. "Of course not," he said, and then the question Charlie had actually asked hit him. "Maybe a little," he acquiesced.

Charlie was still watching the waves. "Why?" he asked simply.

"Not sure," Don shrugged, following his example. "Convenient target, I guess." He sighed. "I just wish she had talked to you in person. A letter seems so…chickenshit."

Charlie looked at him them, his eyes black and hard. "Don't call her that. She's brave. She's selfless. Don't call her that."

"Sorry," Don mumbled. "I just don't like it when people hurt you."

Charlie's eyes softened. "She didn't hurt me; she _was_ hurt, herself. We may never end up together, Don, and that's one of the things I feel guilty about. I try not to – it's not my fault. But it's not hers, either. Don't blame it on her."

Don thought for a moment. "Okay," he finally agreed. "You may have to give that speech to Dad, though."

Charlie glanced at him, confused. "Dad's angry with Amita?"

Don grinned. "Not exactly. I don't think he's too happy with Millie for setting her up with the MIT gig, though. Their relationship could get rocky over this."

Charlie smiled, and at first, Don thought it was the idea of Millie no longer dating his father. He nearly fell off the log when Charlie told him the truth. "About that. They've been playing us; mostly me. Dad and Millie are just good friends – they both date other people. Millie has a date with _Bill_ Saturday night!"

"Sunuvabitch," Don breathed. "I've been paying way too much attention to Robin if I didn't see that."

Charlie tsked. "You're finally starting to pay Robin the proper amount of attention, dude. It would be nice to get even, though."

Don jumped on that bandwagon. "Absolutely. Playing us like that. Where do they get off?"

"I've considered a few options, but no matter what I do in the foreseeable future, if it's out of character Dad is going to freak. I don't want to give him another heart attack."

Don looked at him sideways to make sure he was kidding, and wasn't still blaming himself for that, too. Satisfied, he watched a gull dive into the sea for its dinner. "Robin's pretty smart," he mused. "Let me talk it over with her; she might have a suggestion."

"I love it when you do the dirty work", Charlie yawned, exhausted by the day's events.

Don smiled, raising his arm to ruffle Charlie's wind-blown hair, and then letting his arm settle lightly on Charlie's shoulders. "That's what I'm here for," he promised.

They sat that way, side-by-side on the log, Don's arm around Charlie's shoulders, until long after the sun fell into the ocean; waiting, hoping, believing. Tomorrow, the sun would rise again.

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End Chapter 23


	24. The Graduate

**Title: ****GTB, Part II: Ramifications**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Some people insist that each and every chapter disclaim. Therefore, they all do. **

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**Chapter 24: The Graduate**

Alan bustled out the kitchen door before Bill's vehicle had even come to a full stop. He stood smiling on the nearby walkway as his sons climbed out of the car and made their way to the trunk, waiting for Bradford to pop the lid and let them in to retrieve their bags. Alan called out his greetings, "Welcome home, boys!" and tried to wait for them, but ended up scurrying to the rear of the car himself. When the doctor had called a few days ago, he had advised him to behave normally. Alan decided there was no time like the present, and leaned to wrap his youngest son in his arms -- the way he would any other time he hadn't seen Charlie in a month. "Fine, you look fine, son. I missed you."

He backed off and waited for Charlie's response. Bradford was coming around the car now, having climbed out of the driver's seat, and Charlie glanced at him before looking at his father with undeniable longing in his expressive eyes. "You too, Dad." His eyes fell to his feet, which shuffled on the ground. "You're feeling well?"

Alan reached into the trunk and started pulling out duffle bags, handing one to Don and then going back in for another. "Marvelous," he answered jovially, attemping to dislodge a small bag from beneath one he didn't recognize and assumed was Bill's. "Better than I have in years." He grunted, and with a mighty heave popped the bag from its trap. "I've got this," he smiled at Charlie as he backed away from the trunk. "You can grab your larger one, there." Charlie nodded silently and Alan couldn't help himself. He patted his son on his bowed back when Charlie leaned into the car. "I would have marinated some rib eye, or made up a lasagna...but I don't eat that kind of thing anymore. Larry picked up some frozen yogurt and a sugar-free blackberry pie this morning, though!" He turned slightly to wink at Bradford. "You'll join us for dinner?"

Bill smiled. "I'd love to, Alan, but I can't. I have plans tonight, and I need to get going."

Alan's smile didn't falter. "Another time, then. Thank-you, for everything you've done, Bill." He extended his hand, and the two older men shook hands warmly before Bill rested reached up to grab the raised lid.

"My pleasure," he answered, taking in the faces before him. While Charlie's was slightly apprehensive, still he could see the relief behind the expression. This was a family content to be together, after a long separation. He smiled. "Got everything?" Both brothers nodded and Bradford slammed the lid. Before he turned to return to the front of the automobile, he looked specifically at Charlie. "You've got my number," he reminded the younger man, and Charlie nodded again. Bill dipped his head once in confirmation, and felt oddly bereft when the Eppes began to move away, toward the house. He shook his head and sighed a little when he wedged himself back under the steering wheel.

Turns out he spent his vacation with family, after all.

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Larry was standing in the open doorway by the time the three men reached the house. "Charles, dear friend," he welcomed warmly. "I trust that your time away was beneficial."

Charlie's mouth quirked up in a smile. "I'm glad you're still here, Larry."

The physicist reached to relieve Alan of Charlie's bag. "My flight does not depart until the morrow," he responded lightly, and Charlie's head jerked up sharply. Larry pretended not to notice. "Come. Let me help you get resettled in your room. I find myself inexplicably curious as to what sort of vacation home Dr. Finch deems appropriate for herself."

Don shook his head and started to follow the two professors through the swinging door separating the kitchen from the house proper, but Alan's hand on his arm stopped him. "Have a beer," Alan said loudly.

Don waited until he heard feet mounting the staircase before he arched an eyebrow at his father. "Surely you know me well enough to understand that you cannot make an offer like that in jest."

Alan chuckled. "There's still a cooler full out on the utility porch," he answered. "Help yourself; Larry restocked this morning."

Don set his duffle bag on the floor of the kitchen and hesitated. "Why is Larry going home so soon? Charlie just got back!"

Alan shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably. "About that," he finally said, "I think Larry should give you a ride home after dinner."

Don stopped thinking about the beer in the cooler and felt his jaw drop a little. He hadn't gone back to his apartment since the shooting. When he had needed something, like more clothes or his shaving supplies, Larry had fetched them for him. If forced to tell the God's-honest-truth, Don had been considering letting the apartment go, and moving into the Craftsman for a few more months while he waited to see what developed with Robin. All of that shot through his head in milliseconds, but all he could manage verbally was a weak, "But..."

Alan reached to touch Don's sling-encased forearm gently. "I love having you here, son. I do. Nothing would make me happier than having both of my sons under the same roof."

Don raised his good hand to run it over his head. "Then why?"

Alan sighed. "Bill says it's important to Charlie's transition that things go back to 'normal' as soon as possible; that's why Larry is leaving tomorrow..." He grinned a little. "Although I'm sure not seeing Megan for a month probably had some influence over his decision as well." He soon found his way back to the topic at hand. "Anyway, I don't want Charlie to think you and Larry are staying here because you don't trust him; or, because I'm afraid to be alone with him. We'll all be sending a very strong message in the next few days, Don -- we need to decide what that message is going to be."

Don moved to the table and dragged out a chair, dropping into it wearily. What his father said was true; it also forced him to ask himself a very uncomfortable question. _Did_ he trust Charlie to be alone with their father? He was relieved to discover that he did. Even when Charlie had been in deepest submission to Mark, he had fought his way to the surface in order to help Alan. Don did not doubt his brother's love for his father – or himself – for a moment.

Alan, who had lost over 15 pounds since his heart attack, made quick time out to the laundry room, where he grabbed a beer and a bottle of water out of the cooler before he hurried back into the kitchen. He placed the beer in front of Don and then started to twist the cap off the water, full of nervous energy. "I know it's been several weeks," he continued, "and while you were at the beach with Charlie, Larry and I went to the apartment. We aired the place out, and cleaned everything up. I called Colby, and he said it's no longer a crime scene and we could do whatever we wanted." He smiled again, finally pulling out a chair for himself and sitting at the table. "He even insisted on helping." He lowered his voice a little. "I thought it would be horrible," he shared confidentially, "but I think he and Larry synchronized their watches, or something. As we pulled into the parking lot, one of those crime-scene cleaning service vans was pulling out. I tried to get Colby to let me pay for it, but he insisted he had just called in a favor."

Don smiled feebly and shrugged. "Probably true. We throw those guys a lot of work, ya know."

Alan took a swig of his water and then changed the subject. "Well, Larry _could_ take you to Robin's, instead. If you want."

Don brightened perceptibly. Things were looking up.

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Considering everything they had been through, separately and as a family, it was surprising how quickly things settled into a peaceful routine. Charlie spent some time working in the garage, but not as much as he had in the past; some days, he did not go out there at all. When he and Alan decided to wash and detail both cars one lazy August afternoon, and found almost 60,000 dollars under the driver's seat of the Prius, Charlie was stunned and terrified. He knew he was not missing that much from his accounts. He started to hyperventilate and speculate about all manner of possibilities. He even wanted to call Don and have him check for unsolved muggings during the time that he was living as Mark. Finally, his father was able to convince him to start at the beginning. Alan recommended a thorough audit of all of their bank accounts. Charlie agreed, and within hours had discovered that most of the money was indeed missing from his own. Then he tracked the final 20,000 to Alan. He was in the garage most of the afternoon working on that, and scared Alan half out of his wits when he burst into the kitchen crying. It took Alan almost half-an-hour to calm his son down and get the details from him. By the end of the story, Charlie had apologized at least ten times and was hiccuping in huge gulps of air in an attempt to keep the tears at bay.

They were in the living room, where they had both been sitting on the couch. Alan sat back for a moment, then suddenly laughed and sprang to his feet. "Son, this is wonderful!" he crowed, beginning to pace towards his recliner. When he got there he whirled to face an ashen-faced and confused Charlie. "Don't you see?" Charlie dumbly shook his head, and Alan laughed again. "You're guilty. You feel guilty." Charlie tilted his head a little, beginning to resemble Nipper, the RCA-Victor mascot, and Alan actually giggled before he started back for the couch. "You feel _guilty_, son -- and no Mark. You faced that feeling; you didn't run from it!"

Charlie's head straightened and an expression of comprehension crossed his face. "Huh," he finally said softly. "Guess I've got something to talk to Bill about, tomorrow."

Alan chuckled again, perching on the edge of the couch. "In the meantime," he proposed, "let's take part of my money downtown to CycleSport; you can help me choose my own bike. I can't keep riding yours forever. Besides, if I get my own, we can take rides together."

Charlie grinned, but protested. "We do that already; I use Don's old 10-speed."

Alan waved a hand dismissively. "That thing belongs in the trash. Don didn't even take it with him when he moved to the apartment." His dark eyes twinkled. "He hasn't taken it over to Robin's house, either."

Charlie thought about reminding Alan that Don still paid the rent on his apartment, and that his relationship with Robin was not carved in stone. He even opened his mouth; but in the end, he didn't say anything about his father's wishful thinking.

It just felt too normal.

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Alan began to admonish himself for letting his thoughts go in that direction, though, at the First Annual 10 Percent Fat or Less Eppes Family Labor Day Barbecue.

It was a smaller and more subdued affair than the doomed 4th of July event. Megan and Larry -- and of course Amita -- weren't there, and Bill was spending the long weekend at his cabin. David was taking some vacation time to check on his sister, Karen. Colby had arrived, winking at Charlie behind Alan's back, and Millie was there. Don and Robin were a little more than fashionably late, and when they finally walked around the corner of the house to join the others in the backyard, Robin's distress was palpable. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her gait was stiff, and she seemed to be staying purposefully an arm's-length away from Don. "Oh, dear," Alan murmured, looking across the lawn, and the others at the picnic table followed his gaze.

Charlie unconsciously stated to smile, but Colby kicked him under the table. "Wonder what's up with them?" the agent queried.

Don was carrying a plastic grocery bag from the fingers on his injured side. While he was still in therapy, working on fine muscle control, he no longer needed a sling. His major, gross motor movements were back, and unless a person looked very closely or studied very hard, it was difficult to tell that there had been an injury at all. He seemed unperturbed by Robin's attitude, and smiled widely as he approached the seated group. "Hey!" he greeted. "Did you save some for me?"

Alan rose tentatively and glanced at Robin. "We haven't actually started grilling yet, son. How...how are you, Robin?"

She sniffed and rubbed a hand across her face. "I suggest you talk to HIM about that!" she fumed, obviously furious.

Alan moved his eyes back to Don, who seemed to be taking it very well. "She's a little upset right now," his son explained. "Just didn't see it coming. I'm sure when she gets used to the idea..."

Robin flew across the few feet separating her from Alan, waving both hands in the air. "He's crazy! I can't believe he did this; see if you can talk some _sense_ into him Alan, please! Throwing away a 13-year career, just throwing it away like it's nothing!" She suddenly whirled and jabbed a finger in Colby's direction. "And you," she spat distastefully. "You knew about this, didn't you?"

All eyes turned to Agent Granger, who reddened furiously and shot Don a dirty look. "Hey, it's _his_ life," he protested. "I can't stop him from quitting. I tried."

All eyes moved on to Don. "You quit the Bureau?" Alan managed to squeak. He tried to determine how he felt about the possibility. Yes, it would be wonderful to know people weren't shooting at Don every day; on the other hand, the retirement benefits were outstanding, if Don lived that long. "Son, I know you hate the desk work, but it's only been for a few weeks. It'll get easier. And it's only for a few more months anyway!"

Robin snorted loudly and sarcastically. All eyes switched to her. "Tell him," she insisted, staring at Don. "Tell your father what a stinking, miserable LIAR you are!"

Charlie made a choking noise and buried his face in the soda in front of him. Alan, standing next to him, absently patted him on the back and regarded his eldest. "Don?"

Don's smile had not faltered. "Dad, I'm happy. This is what I want to do. It's gonna be great! Robin and I could even work together, if she'd give it half a chance. I'm sure Three Ring could find something for her to do. She's very flexible."

Robin finally got close enough to Don to extend both arms and push them into his chest, shoving him backwards three feet. Then she turned to Alan, again. "He hasn't even been working the desk! All those mornings we thought he was at work, he's been...he's been... God!" She threw up her hands and stormed toward the koi pond, suddenly speechless.

Charlie plunked down his glass and extricated himself from the picnic table, preparing to follow her. "I'm a little worried about the fish," he whispered.

Alan watched him go and then looked at Don. "What did you do?"

Don reached into the grocery bag he was still holding and pulled out something that looked so much like Charlie's curly head that both Millie and Alan gasped. He held up the dark wig so that they could see it better. "I joined the circus," he announced happily. "I've been going to clown school!" He had successfully rendered everyone remaining at the table speechless, so Don shoved the wig back into the bag and pulled out a handful of tickets instead. He moved around the table, passing them out and leaving one at Charlie's seat. "Tomorrow is our graduation, and we get to perform at the Three Ring Circus scheduled for the Armory, in south L.A." He ended his circle of life back where he began, in front of his father. He offered Alan the last ticket. "Please say you'll come, Dad. I know how crazy this sounds, but I love it; I honestly love every minute of it. Don't you want me to be happy?" He pointed out the obvious. "Plus, people hardly ever shoot at clowns."

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The barbecue ended as abruptly as the last one had, and Alan went to bed swearing he would never host another cookout, the rest of his life. To make matters worse, Charlie was gone most of the next day. He had a session with Bill -- Don had pressed another ticket upon him, begging him to take it to the doctor -- and after that he spent several hours at CalSci. He had agreed to teach two classes during the fall semester, and he was understandably nervous. He was spending more time preparing for those classes than he usually did when he was teaching a full load. Don was working on his costume and make-up, refining his "clown character", whatever the hell that meant. Alan found himself wandering the house in a daze most of the day, wondering if the circus offered benefits like retirement, or health insurance. His son was a clown. Alan couldn't quite wrap his head around it.

Dutiful father that he was, though, at the appointed hour he was seated on the bottom row of the bleachers, along with the families of all the other graduating clowns. Charlie was on one side of him; Millie on the other. Colby and Dr. Bradford were sitting on the next row; poor Robin was nowhere to be seen. Alan was beginning to doubt that he would ever see her again. Charlie bought him peanuts, and Alan sat through the animal acts in dreaded anticipation. The clown class, the Ring Master had announced, would be presenting their graduation performance just before intermission.

Finally, following a hoop act during which Alan tried not to think about what Don had said about Robin, and then the death-defying high wire, the Ring Master introduced the class of 2008. A miniscule black-and-white police car brimming with clowns careened into the center ring, dumping bodies out the windows and off the roof with every turn. At length, amidst the cheering and laughter of the crowd, the tiny car came to a halt, and the final few clowns began to climb out.

Not all were in full white-face. Don, for instance, who had been driving the vehicle, was emulating a Keystone Kop. He wore a heavy police uniform circa 1930, and twirled a gigantic handlebar mustache with one hand and a nightstick with the other. A tall hat, secured to his chin with a strap, perched atop the ridiculous wig. Tufts of wild dark curls shot out from his head for nearly six inches.

While Alan watched, the group of clowns converged on the small vehicle and began to unload an unbelievable amount of material from the trunk; he had no idea how they got it all in there. Fascinated, it was a few moments before he realized that they were building a jail cell in the middle of the ring. Clown Don began to circle the Ring Master, making fun of him with childish but universally-recognized gestures. The Ring Master played along, obviously part of the routine. At one point, almost snake-like, Don reached out and grabbed the Ring Master's microphone. He ran around the ring with it, the Ring Master shaking his fists and chasing him, half-a-dozen clowns bringing up the rear. The show was silly, and quite obviously intended for children, but Alan couldn't help himself. He found himself laughing.

Eventually the Ring Master ended up in "jail". At that point, Don began to send his minion clowns into the crowd, to gather other prisoners. Alan stopped laughing when he saw an orange-haired white-face with flopping feet headed his way. "Oh, no," he mumbled, scooting closer to Charlie. "He wouldn't."

The clown's attention was diverted to Charlie, who stiffened perceptibly. "Please, Dad!" he begged. "Don't let him take _me_!"

The plea was sufficiently desperate. Alan took one look at his youngest – were those tears in his eyes? – and stood before the clown could make a choice. He allowed the man dressed in a pink tutu – a man with hairy legs, by the way – to present him to Constable Don, center stage. He began working on his plans to disinherit his son and waited for Don to waive him toward the "jail cell", which by now was getting rather full.

To Alan's utter surprise, Don began speaking into the Ring Master's stolen microphone, instead. Up until that moment, he had only been using it in silent gesture, as he mimed to his posse of clowns. "WHAT ARE THE CHARGES AGAINST THIS MAN?" Don fairly roared, and Alan was shocked when the audience began screaming out possibilities. He glanced longingly at his seat on the bleachers, and was surprised to see Robin there, sitting in the spot he had vacated. She was cheering, screaming, clapping, and did not look distressed at all. Behind her, Colby was nearly apoleptic with glee, and Bradford was wiping an eye. Even Charlie was grinning like a fool. Only Millie had the common decency to look a little uncomfortable, and Alan's eyes lingered on her gratefully. His head was fairly spinning; dozens of strangers in the audience of hundreds were enjoying the moment immensely, but Alan was feeling the need to sit down. He started to turn to his disguised son, intending to play the heart attack card if he had to, when a creature less than three feet tall, dressed in a miniature replica of Don's costume, came barreling out of nowhere – the damn clowns were everywhere – and skidded to a stop right in front of them. He started leaping, apparently trying to thrust a rolled scroll into Don's hand. After three jumps, Don caught up the little person; in one quick motion he ripped the scroll out of his hand and tossed the tiny clown over his head, backwards. The audience screamed and Alan turned, horrified, just in time to see the man safely land on a small rescue trampoline several of the other clowns had caught him with.

"This is NOT funny," he hissed, turning back in time to see Don unfurl the scroll, which extended down to the floor and kept coming.

"Ah, this is BAD," Don said into the microphone. He dropped the scroll, twirled his handlebar mustache and circled Alan slowly. "You have been charged with DECEPTION!" he bellowed. "HOW DO YOU PLEAD?"

Alan lifted his hands in mock surrender, hoping to end the fiasco as soon as possible. "Just get it over with, officer," he tried to smile. He was so embarrassed he didn't even notice that the Ring Master had walked out of the 'jail cell' and was coming toward them.

Don smiled at him under the mustache, and Alan suddenly felt fear. "Call someone to bail you out," he said into the microphone. "A GIRLFRIEND, perhaps?" The audience erupted into hoots and catcalls, and Alan looked toward the bleachers to see that Millie was trying to stand up. Robin seemed to be impeding her progress somehow. Don kept up his tirade. "Unless, of course, you DON'T REALLY HAVE ONE, Old Man." He dropped the mic to his side and spoke so quietly that only Alan could hear him. "You and Millie wouldn't mislead your own sons about a thing like that, would you?"

Busted. Alan's mouth gaped, and he found himself speechless. He looked back at the bleachers, and knew that with the exception of Millie, they were all in on it. This had to be the most elaborate practical joke known to mankind. His eyes narrowed, and he swiveled his head to look at Don again. The Ring Master had taken his microphone back and was announcing what Alan had deduced to the audience at large, introducing Don as an FBI agent and soliciting applause for the supporting cast of clowns, who really were graduating that night.

Don wrapped his good arm around his father and pushed him toward the stands. "I'll walk you back," he said into his ear as he lifted his other hand and waved at the cheering crowd. Alan hated himself for being proud when he saw it; that was Don's injured arm. He let himself be propelled toward the bleachers, unsure where he was supposed to sit now that Robin was in his seat. The graduating class had been cavorting their final good-bye, spinning and cartwheeling in front of them as they walked. When Alan's line of vision cleared, he saw that the smiling Ring Master had somehow gotten to the bleachers ahead of them. The man winked at Don, tipped his hat and handed him the microphone again before backing away several feet. _Oh God_, Alan thought miserably. _What fresh hell is this?_

He thought the heat of the circus tent and the excitement had gotten to Don; his son's knees seemed to be buckling. Alan automatically reached to pull him back up, but Don was already on one knee, just a few feet in front of the bleachers. "Robin Elaine Brooks," Don said into the microphone, and the entire audience seemed to sense the change in mood and hushed as one, waiting. "Without you, I'm nothing but a clown," Don continued. He unsnapped his chin strap and took off his tall hat, reaching inside before he let if fall to the ground. When he extended his right arm, steady as a rock, palm-side up, a small jeweler's box rested in his hand. "I want you to share the rest of my life, and I want to share the rest of yours. I love you, Robin. Will you marry me?"

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The group had adjourned to _Pie N Burger_ – which had a nice sugar-free selection – to celebrate.

They had placed their orders, Don ordering for Charlie, who had excused himself to the restroom almost as soon as they arrived. Robin was holding her hand out, letting Millie admire her ring. Colby was filling Alan in on some of the details. "One of the real clowns – an existing clown, not one of the new graduates – is an old friend of Robin's from law school. She looked her up when Three Ring came to town. Turns out she's married to the owner, now. The circus was laying off for a week to give everybody a break before doing several shows in L.A. and then moving on. So, Don and Robin went to dinner with the two of them, and this little plan was hatched."

"Well, the part about getting even with you," amended Bill. "We were all recruited for that; Don literally kept the engagement part under his hat."

Colby snickered. "Dr. Bradford even called your cardiologist, to make sure a little payback wouldn't kill you."

Alan shook his head, chagrined. "I cannot _believe_ I actually _believed_ my son was quitting the Bureau and becoming a circus clown," he moaned. He elbowed Millie, sitting beside him. "It was _your_ idea to keep them guessing."

She ignored him and kept talking to Robin, across the table. Don's eyes crinkled and he smiled at his father. "I suggest you adopt a policy of honesty," he said. "Robin's part of the family now, and she's pretty good at getting even."

"_I'll_ say," Alan muttered, and everyone laughed.

At that moment the waitress arrived with several pieces of pie. Charlie still wasn't back, and Don leaned to kiss Robin on the cheek. "I'll be right back," he whispered. "Just going to check on Charlie." She smiled at him and nodded, and Don slipped out of the booth.

In the men's room, he found his brother standing in front of the bank of sinks, a crumpled paper towel in his hand. He was staring blankly at his own reflection in the mirrored wall over the was basins, and probably had been for quite some time. Don quietly approached him, and waited for another customer to wash his hands and exit the restroom. He hadn't even told Charlie that he was going to ask Robin to marry him, and he was starting to regret that a little. Perhaps it had been too hard for his brother to witness that, so soon after Amita, when he was feeling so alone himself. "Hey," he said, and his voice, although quiet, still echoed in the acoustic room.

Charlie's eyes met his in the mirror. "Congratulations," he said with a grin.

Don grinned back. "Thanks. Thanks. Listen, Chuck, Robin and I obviously haven't discussed details yet; we could end up hightailin' it to Vegas. But whatever we decide, you'll be my Best Man, right?"

Charlie looked a little startled, and turned slightly to lob the paper towel he was holding into a trash can. "Maybe you should ask Dad," he suggested. "It would mean a lot to him."

Don lightly rested a hand on Charlie's shoulder. "Dad is going to sit in the front row and cry like a baby," he responded. "You're going to stand next to me, in case I pass out or something. You're going to be my rock, and catch me if I fall."

Charlie straightend his spine just a tad. _Just like you have always done for me_, he thought, locking his gaze with Don's in the mirror again. His smile was slow, and genuine, and reached his dark eyes. "Of course," he answered. "There's nothing I'd rather do."

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THE END

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_Props to Tanager, whose Plot Bunny has so far been responsible for two stories, 43 chapters between them. Hopefully, she will let the baby rabbits and their Cat rest for awhile!_


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